The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  Let’s lay him out, I said, indicating by gestures and grimaces that we could then dress him and bundle him out.

  It took us almost a half hour to get his things on. Cromwell drunk and sleepy though he was refused with might and main to permit us to unbutton his trousers, which we had to do to tuck his shirt in. We were obliged to leave his fly open and his shirt sticking out. When it came time we would cover his shirt with the overcoat.

  Cromwell passed out immediately. A heavy trance, punctuated by obscene snores. Kronski was radiant. Hadn’t had such a good time in ages, he assured me. Then, without dropping his voice, he blandly suggested that we go through Cromwell’s pockets. We ought at least to get back what we laid out for food and drink, he insisted. I don’t know why I suddenly became so scrupulous but I refused to entertain the notion. He’d never miss the money, said Kronski. What’s fifty or a hundred bucks to him? Just to reassure himself he extracted Cromwell’s wallet. To his utter amazement there wasn’t a bill in it.

  Well I’ll be damned! he mumbled. That’s the rich for you. Never carry cash. Pfui!

  We’d better get him out of here soon, I urged.

  Try and do it! said Kronski, grinning like a billy-goat. What’s wrong with letting him stay here?

  Are you mad? I shouted.

  He laughed. Then he calmly proceeded to tell us how wonderful he thought it would be if we would play the farce out to the end, that is, to wake up, all five of us (next morning) and continue to enact our respective roles. That would give Mona a chance to do some real acting, he thought. Kronski’s wife wasn’t at all enthusiastic over this suggestion—it was all too complicated to suit her.

  After much palaver we decided to rouse Cromwell, drag him out by the heels, if necessary, and dispatch him to a hotel. We had to tussle with him for a good quarter of an hour before we succeeded in getting him to a semi-standing position. His knees simply refused to straighten out; his hat was over his eyes and his shirt-tails were sticking out from under the overcoat which we were unable to button. He looked for all the world like Snuffy the Cabman. We were laughing so hysterically that it was all we could do to descend the steps without rolling over one another. Poor Cromwell kept protesting that he didn’t want to go yet, that he wanted to wait for Mona.

  She’s gone to Washington to meet you, said Kronski maliciously. We got a telegram while you were asleep.

  Cromwell was too stupefied to get the full import of this. Every now and then he sagged, threatening to collapse in the street. Our idea was to give him a bit of air, brace him up a bit, and then bundle him into a cab. To find a cab we had to walk several blocks. Our way led towards the river, a roundabout way, but we thought the walk would do him good. When we got near the docks we all sat down on the railroad tracks and took a breather. Cromwell simply stretched out between the tracks, laughing and hiccoughing, quite as if he were a babe in the cradle. At intervals he begged for something to eat. He wanted ham-and-eggs. The nearest open restaurant was almost a mile away. I suggested that I would run back to the house and get some sandwiches. Cromwell said he couldn’t wait that long, wanted his ham-and-eggs right away. We yanked him to his feet again, a job which demanded our combined strength, and started pushing and dragging him towards the bright lights of Borough Hall. A night watchman came along and demanded to know what we were doing there at that hour of the night. Cromwell collapsed at our feet. Whatcha got there? demanded the watchman, prodding Cromwell with his feet as if he were a corpse. It’s nothing, he’s just drunk, I said. The watchman bent over him to smell his breath.

  Get him out of here, he said, or I’ll fan the whole bunch of you.

  Yes sir, yes sir, we said, dragging Cromwell by the arm-pits, his feet scraping the ground. A few seconds later the watchman came running up with Cromwell’s hat in his hand. We put it on him but it fell off again. Here, I said, opening my mouth, put it between my teeth. We were panting and sweating now from the exertion of dragging him. The watchman observed us a few moments in disgust, then he said: Let go of him! Here, sling him over my back … you guys are dubs. Like this we reached the end of the street where the elevated line swung overhead. Now one of you guys fetch a cab, said the night watchman. Don’t pull him around any more, you’ll wrench his arms out. Kronski skedaddled up the street in search of a cab. We sat down on the curb and waited.

  The cab arrived in a few minutes and we bundled him in. His shirt tails were still hanging out.

  Where to? asked the driver.

  The Hotel Astor! I said.

  The Waldorf-Astoria! shouted Kronski.

  Well, make up your minds! said the cabby.

  The Commodore, shouted Cromwell.

  Are you sure? said the driver. This ain’t a wild-goose chase, is it?

  It’s the Commodore all right, isn’t it? I said, sticking my head inside the cab.

  Sure, said Cromwell thickly, anywhere suits me.

  Has he got any money on him? asked the cabby.

  He’s got loads of money, said Kronski. He’s a banker.

  I think one of you guys better go along with him, said the driver.

  O. K., said Kronski and promptly hopped in with his wife.

  Hey! shouted Cromwell, what about Dr. Marx?

  He’ll come in the next cab, said Kronski. He’s got to make a telephone call.

  Hey I he shouted to me, what about your wife?

  She’s all right, I said, and waved good-bye. When I got back to the house I discovered Cromwell’s brief case and some small change which had dropped out of his pockets. I opened the brief case and found a mass of papers and some telegrams. The most recent telegram was from the Treasury Department, urging Cromwell to telephone some one at midnight without fail, extremely urgent. I ate a sandwich, while glancing over the legal documents, took a glass of wine, and decided to call Washington for him. I had a devil of a job getting the man at the other end; when I did he answered in a sleepy voice, gruff and irritated. I explained that Cromwell had met with a little accident but would telephone him in the morning. But who are you … who is this, he kept repeating. He’ll telephone you in the morning, I repeated, ignoring his frantic questions. Then I hung up. Outside I ran as quickly as I could. I knew he’d call back. I was afraid he might get the police after me. I made quite a detour to reach the telegraph office; there I sent a message to Cromwell, to the Commodore Hotel. I hoped to Christ Kronski had delivered him there. As I left the telegraph office I realized that Cromwell might not get the message until the next afternoon. The clerk would probably hold it until Cromwell woke up. I went to another cafeteria and called the Commodore, urging the night clerk to be sure to rouse Cromwell when he got the telegram. Pour a pitcher of cold water over him if necessary, I said, but be sure he reads my telegram … it’s life and death.

  When I got back to the house Mona was there cleaning up the mess.

  You must have had quite a party, she said. That we did, I said.

  I saw the brief case lying there. He would need that when telephoning Washington. Look, I said, we’d better get a cab and deliver this to him right away. I’ve been reading over those papers. They’re dynamite. Better not be caught with them in our possession.

  You go, said Mona, I’m exhausted.

  There I was, in the street again, and just as Kronski had predicted, following in a cab. When I got to the hotel I found that Cromwell had already gone to his room. I insisted that the clerk take me to his room. Cromwell was lying fully clothed on the bedspread, flat on his back, his hat beside him. I put the brief case on his chest and tip-toed out. Then I made the clerk accompany me to the manager’s office, explained the situation to that individual, and made the clerk testify that he had seen me deposit the brief-case on Cromwell’s chest.

  And may I have your name? asked the manager, somewhat perturbed by these unusual tactics.

  Certainly, I said, Dr. Karl Marx of the Poly-technique Institute. You can call me in the morning if there is any irregularity. Mr. Cromwell is a friend of mi
ne, an F. B. I. agent. He had a little too much to drink. You’ll look after him, I hope.

  I certainly will, said the night manager, looking rather alarmed. Can we reach you at your office any time, Dr. Marx?

  I’ll be there all day, certainly, I said. If I should be out, ask for my secretary—Miss Rabinovitch—she’ll know where to reach me. I’ve got to get some sleep now … must be in the operating room at nine. Thank you so much. Good-night!

  The bell-hop escorted me to the revolving door. He was visibly impressed by the rigmarole. Cab, sir? he said. Yes, I said, and gave him the change which I had gathered from the floor. Thank you very very much, Doctor, he said, bowing and scraping, as he showed me to the cab.

  I told the cabby to drive to Times Square. There I got out and headed for the subway. Just as I was reaching the change booth I realized I hadn’t a damned cent left over. The cab driver had gotten my last quarter. I climbed up the steps and stood at the curb, wondering where and how I would raise the necessary nickel. As I was standing there a night messenger came along. I looked twice to see if I knew him. Then I bethought me of the telegraph office at Grand Central. I was sure to know some one there. I walked back to Grand Central, swung down the ramp and sure enough, there at the desk, large as life, was my old friend Driggs. Driggs, would you lend me a nickel? I said. A nickel? said Driggs. Here, take a dollar! We chatted a few moments and then I ducked back to the subway.

  A phrase Cromwell had let drop a number of times during the early part of the evening kept recurring to mind: my friend William Randolph Hearst. I didn’t doubt in the least that they were good friends, though Cromwell was still a pretty young man to be a bosom friend of the newspaper Czar. The more I thought of Cromwell the better I liked him. I was determined to see him again soon, on my own next time. I prayed that he wouldn’t forget to make that telephone call. I wondered what he would think of me when he realized I had gone through his brief case.

  It was only a few nights later that we met again. This time at Papa Moskowitz’s. Just Cromwell, Mona and myself. It was Cromwell who had suggested the rendezvous. He was leaving for Washington the next day.

  Any uneasiness I might have felt on meeting him the second time was quickly dispelled by his warm smile and hearty handshake. At once he informed me how grateful he was for what I had done, not specifying what I had done, but giving me a look which made it clear he knew everything. I always make an ass of myself when I drink, he said, blushing slightly. He looked more boyish now than he had the first night I met him. He shouldn’t have been more than thirty, it seemed to me. Now that I knew what his real job was I was more than ever amazed by his easy, carefree deportment. He acted like a man without any responsibilities. Just a bright young banker of good family—that was the impression he created.

  Mona and he had been talking literature, it seemed. He pretended, as before, to be out of touch with literary events. Nothing but a plain business man with a slight knowledge of finance. Politics? Completely beyond his ken. No, the banking business kept him busy enough. Except for an occasional tear, he was a home-loving body. Hardly ever saw anything but Washington and New York. Europe? Yes, most eager to see Europe. But that would have to wait until he could afford a real vacation.

  He pretended to be rather ashamed of the fact that the only language he knew was English. But he supposed one could get by if one had the right connections.

  I enjoyed hearing him hand out this line. Never by word or gesture did I betray his confidence. Not even to Mona would I have dared reveal what I knew about Cromwell. He seemed to understand that I could be trusted.

  And so we talked and talked, listening to Moskowitz now and then, and drinking moderately. I gathered that he had already made it clear to Mona that the column was no go. Everybody had praised her work, but the big boss, whoever that was, had concluded it was not for the Hearst papers.

  What about Hearst himself? I ventured to ask. Did he say no to it?

  Cromwell explained that Hearst usually abided by the decisions of his underlings. It was all very complicated, he assured me. However, he thought that something else might turn up, something even more promising. He would know after he got back to Washington.

  I of course was able to interpret this as a mere politeness, knowing full well now that Cromwell would not be in Washington for at least two months, that in seven or eight days, as a matter of fact, he would be in Bucharest, conversing in the language of that country with great fluency.

  I may be seeing Hearst when I go to California next month, he said, never batting an eyelash. I’ve got to go there on a business trip.

  Oh, by the way, he added, as if it had just occurred to him at that moment, isn’t your friend Doctor Kronski a rather strange person … I mean, for a surgeon?

  What do you mean? I said.

  Oh, I don’t know … I would have taken him for a pawn-broker, or something like that. Perhaps he was only putting on to amuse me.

  You mean his talk? He’s always that way when he drinks. No, he’s really a remarkable individual—and an excellent surgeon.

  I must look him up when I get back here again, said Cromwell. My little boy has a club foot. Perhaps Dr. Kronski would know what to do for him?

  I’m sure he would, I said, forgetting that I was supposed to be a surgeon too.

  As if divining my oversight, and just to be a bit playful, Cromwell added: Perhaps you could tell me something about such matters yourself, Dr. Marx. Or isn’t that your field?

  No, it isn’t really, I said, though I can tell you this much, however We have cured some cases. It all depends. To explain why would be rather complicated…

  Here he smiled broadly. I understand, he said. But it’s good to know that you think there is some hope.

  Indeed there is, I said warmly. Now in Bucharest at the present time there’s a celebrated surgeon who is reputed to have cured ninety percent of his cases. He hag some special treatment of his own which we over here are not yet familiar with. I believe it’s an electrical treatment.

  In Bucharest, you say? That’s far away.

  Yes, it is, I agreed.

  Supposing we have another bottle of Rhine wine? suggested Cromwell.

  If you insist, I replied. I’ll have just a wee drop, then I must be going.

  Do stay, he begged, I really enjoy talking with you. You know, sometimes you strike me as more of a literary man than a surgeon.’

  I used to write, I said. But that was years ago. In our profession one doesn’t have much time for literature.

  It’s like the banking business, isn’t it? said Cromwell.

  Quite. We smiled good-naturedly at one another.

  But there have been physicians who wrote books, haven’t there? said Cromwell. I mean novels, plays, and such like.

  To be sure, I said, plenty of them. Schnitzler, Mann, Somerset Maugham…

  Don’t overlook Elie Faure, said Cromwell. Mona here has been telling me a great deal about him. Wrote a history of art, or something like that … wasn’t that it? He looked to Mona for confirmation. I’ve never seen his work, of course. I wouldn’t know a good painting from a bad one.

  I’m not so sure of that, said I. I think you’d know a spurious one if you saw it.

  Why do you say that?

  Oh, it’s just a hunch. I think you’re quick to detect whatever is counterfeit.

  You’re probably crediting me with too much acumen, Dr. Marx. Of course, in our business, one does get accustomed to being on the alert for bad money. But that’s really not my department. We have specialists for that sort of thing.

  Naturally, I said. But seriously, Mona is right … one day you’ve got to read Elie Faure. Imagine a man writing a colossal History of Art in his spare time! Used to make notes on his cuff while visiting his patients. Now and then he would fly to some far off place, like Yucatan or Siam or Easter Island. I doubt if any of his neighbors knew that he made such flights. Led a humdrum life, outwardly. He was an excellent physician. But his p
assion was art. I can’t tell you how much I admire the man.

  You speak about him exactly like Mona, said Cromwell. And you tell me you have no time for other pursuits!

  Here Mona put in her oar. According to her, I was a man of many facets, a man who seemed to have time for everything.

  Would he have suspected, for instance, that Dr. Marx was also a skilled musician, an expert at chess, a stamp collector … ?

  Cromwell here averred that he suspected I was capable of many things I was too modest to reveal. He was convinced, for one thing, that I was a man of great imagination. Quite casually he reminded us that he had noticed my hands the other night. In his humble opinion they revealed much more than the mere ability to wield the scalpel.

  Interpreting this remark in her own fashion, Mona at once demanded if he could read palms.

  Not really, said Cromwell, looking as if abashed. Enough, perhaps, to tell a criminal from a butcher, a violinist from a pharmacist. Most any one can do that much, even without a knowledge of palmistry.

  At this point I had an impulse to leave.

  Do stay! begged Cromwell.

  No, really, I must be off, said I, grasping his hand.

  We’ll meet again soon, I hope, said Cromwell. Do bring your wife next time. A charming little creature. I took quite a fancy to her.

  That she is, said I, reddening to the ears. Well, good-bye! And bon voyage!

  To this Cromwell raised his glass over the brim of which I detected a slightly mocking glance of the eyes. At the door I encountered Papa Moskowitz.

  Who is that man at your table? he asked in a low voice.

  Frankly, I don’t know, I answered. Better ask Mona.

  He’s not a friend of yours then?

  That’s hard to answer too, I replied. Well, good-bye! and I shook myself loose.

  That night I had a very disturbing dream. It started off, as dreams often do, as a pursuit. I was chasing a small thin man down a dark street, towards the river. Behind me was a man chasing me. It was important for me to catch up with the man I was pursuing before the other man got me. The thin little man was none other than Spivak. I had been trailing him all night from place to place, and finally I had him on the run. Who the man behind me was I had no idea. Whoever he was he had good wind and was fleet of foot. He gave me the uneasy feeling that he could catch up with me whenever he had a mind to. As for Spivak, though I wanted nothing better than to see him drown himself, it was most urgent that I collar him first: he had on him some papers which were of vital importance to me.