The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  It was just beginning to dawn as we entered the precincts of the Mikado’s palace.

  I should have been trembling now but instead I was serene, perfectly composed, prepared for any eventuality. The Mikado will turn out to be another old friend, I said to myself, pleased with my sagacity.

  We dismounted before a huge portal painted in fiery colors, changed into wooden clogs and kimonos, prostrated ourselves a few times, and then waited for the portal to swing open.

  Noiselessly, almost imperceptibly, the big portal finally swung open. We were in the midst of a small circular court, the flagging of which was inlaid with mother of pearl and precious gems. An enormous statue of the Buddha stood in the center of the court. The expression on the Buddha’s face was grave and seraphic at once. There emanated from him a feeling of tranquillity such as I had never known before. I felt drawn into the circle of his blessedness. The whole universe seemed to have come to an ecstatic hush.

  A woman was coming forward from one of the hidden archways. She was clothed in ceremonial garb and carrying a sacred vessel. As she approached the Buddha everything became transformed. She advanced now with the gait of a dancer, to the sound of weird cacophonous music, sharp staccato sounds made by wood, stone and iron. From every doorway dancers now came forth with terrifying banners, their faces concealed by hideous masks. As they circled about the statue of the Buddha they blew into huge conch shells which gave forth unearthly sounds. Suddenly they fell away and I was alone in the court, facing a huge animal which resembled a bull. The animal was curled up on an iron altar that looked somewhat like a frying pan. I could see now that it was not a bull but the Minotaur. One eye was closed peacefully, the other was staring at me, quite friendily however. Of a sudden this enormous eye began to wink at me, coyly, flirtatiously, like a woman under a street lamp in some low quarter of the city. And as it winked it curled itself up more, as if making ready to be roasted. Then it closed the enormous eye and pretended to be snoozing. Now and then it fluttered the lids of that monstrous orb which had winked so jocosely.

  Stealthily, on tip-toes, and with painful slowness, I approached the dread monster. When I got within a few feet of the altar, which was shaped distinctly like a saucepan I now realized, I perceived with horror that little flames were licking it from below. The Minotaur seemed to be stirring in his own juice, pleasurably. Again he was opening and shutting that big eye. The expression was one of sheer drollery.

  Approaching more closely I felt the heat given off by those little flames. I could also smell the stench of the animal’s scorched hide. I was hypnotized with terror. I stood where I was, rooted, the perspiration streaming down my face in rivulets.

  With one bound the monster suddenly sprang upright, balancing himself on his hind legs. I perceived with a retching horror that he had three heads. All six eyes were wide open and leering at me. Transfixed, I stared glumly as the burnt hide fell away, revealing an underlayer of skin which was pure white and smooth as ivory. Now the heads began to turn white also, except for the three noses and muzzles which were of bright vermilion. Around the eyes were circles of blue, the blue of cobalt. In each forehead there was a black star; they twinkled like real stars.

  Still balancing itself on its hind legs the monster now began to sing, rearing its head still higher, tossing its mane, rolling all of its six horrible leering eyes.

  Mother of God! I mumbled in Polish, ready to faint momentarily.

  The song, which had sounded at first like some Equatorial chant, was becoming more and more recognizable. With a skill which was supernatural, the monster subtly and rapidly changed from one register to another, one key to another, until finally with a clear and unmistakable voice it was hymning the Star Spangled Banner. As the anthem progressed, the beautiful white skin of the Minotaur changed from white to red and then to blue. The black stars in the foreheads became golden; they flashed like semaphores.

  My mind, unable to follow these bewildering changes, seemed to go blank. Or perhaps a real blackout had occurred. At any rate, the next thing I knew the Minotaur had disappeared, the altar with it. On the beautiful mauve, flagging, mauve and pale rose really, on which the precious inlaid gems sparkled like fiery stars, a nude woman of voluptuous proportions and with a mouth like a fresh wound was dancing the belly dance. Her navel, enlarged to the size of a silver dollar, was painted a vivid carmine; she wore a tiara and her wrists and ankles were studded with bracelets. I would have recognized her anywhere, nude or swaddled in cotton wool. Her long golden hair, her wild eyes of the nymphomaniac, her super-sensual mouth told me unmistakably that she was none other than Helen Reilly. If she had not been so fiercely possessive she would now be sitting in the White House with Charlie who had deserted her. She would have been The First Lady in the Land.

  I had hardly time to reflect, however. She was being bundled into a plane with me, stark naked and reeking of sweat and perfume. We were off again—back to Washington, no doubt. I offered her my kimono but she waved it aside. She felt comfortable just as she was, thank you. There she sat opposite me, her knees drawn up almost to her chin, her legs brazenly parted, puffing a cigarette. I wondered what the President—Charlie, that is—would say when he laid eyes on her. He had always referred to her as a lascivious, no-good bitch. Well, anyway, I had made good. I was bringing her back, that was the all important. No doubt he, Charlie, intended to obtain one of those divorces which only the Pope himself could grant.

  Throughout the flight she continued to smoke cigarette after cigarette, maintaining her brazen posture, leering at me, making goo-goo eyes, heaving her big boobies, even playing with herself now and then. It was almost too much for me: I had to close my eyes.

  When I opened them we were ascending the steps of the White House, hemmed in by a cordon of guards who screened the naked figure of the President’s wife. I followed behind her, watching in utter fascination the way she joggled her low-slung buttocks. Had I not known who she was I might well have taken her for one of Minsky’s belly dancers … for Cleo herself.

  As the door of the White House opened I got the surprise of my life. It was no longer the room I had been received in by the President of our grand republic. It was the interior of George Marshall’s home. A table of staggering proportions took up almost the entire length of the room. At each end stood a massive candelabra. Eleven men were seated round it, each one holding a glass in his hand: they reminded me of the wax figures at Madame Tussaud’s. Needless to say, they were the eleven members of the original Deep-thinkers, as we once called ourselves. The vacant chair was obviously for me.

  At one end of the table sat our old President, Charlie Reilly; at the other end sat our real President, George Marshall. At a given signal they all rose solemnly, glasses upraised, and broke into a deafening cheer. Bravo, Hen! Bravo! they shouted. And with this they swooped down on us, gathered Helen by the arms and legs, and tossed her on to the Communion table. Charlie grasped my hand and repeated warmly, Well done, Hen! Well done! I now shook hands with each one in turn, and with each gave the old sign—tickling the palm with the forefinger. They were all exceedingly well preserved—I say preserved because, despite the warmth and the cordiality of their greeting there was something artificial, something wax-like about them. It was good, nevertheless, to see them all. Like old times, I thought to myself. Becker, with his worn fiddle-case; George Gifford, pinched and shrunk, as always, and talking through his-nose; Steve Hill, big and blustering, trying to make himself look even more important than ever; Woodruff, MacGregor, Al Burger, Grimmy, Otto Kunst, and Frank Carroll. I was so immensely pleased to see Frank Carroll. He had lavender-colored eyes with enormous lashes, like a girl’s. He spoke softly and gently, more with his eyes than his mouth. A cross between a priest and a gigolo.

  It was George Marshall who brought us back to reality. He was rapping the table with his gavel. Meeting called to order! He rapped again vigorously and we all filed to our respective places at the table. The circle was complete, the
end like the beginning. United in brotherhood, inexorably. How clear it all was! Every one was wearing his button on which was inscribed in letters of gold Fratres Semper. It was all just as it had always been, even to George Marshall’s mother who was trotting back and forth from the kitchen, her arms laden with tempting viands. Unconsciously I stared intently at her broad backside. Had he not said once, George Marshall, that the sun rose and set in her ass?

  There was only one disturbing note about this gathering, and that was the presence (in the nude) of Charlie Reilly’s wife. There she stood in the middle of the long table, as brazen and impudent as ever, a cigarette between her lips, waiting for her cue. However, and this was even more strange, more disturbing to me, no one seemed to give her a tumble. I looked in Charlie’s direction to see how he was taking it; he seemed unperturbed, unruffled, comporting himself in much the same way as he had when impersonating the President of these United States.

  George Marshall’s voice now made itself heard. Before we go on with the reading of the minutes, said he, I want to present to you fellows a new member of the club. She’s our first and only female member. A real lady, if I must lie like a dog. Some of you may recognize her. I’m sure Charlie will, anyhow. He gave us a slippery grimace, intended for a smile, then hurried on. This is an important meeting, I want you fellows to understand. Hen here has just been to Tokio and back—I won’t say what for just now. At the conclusion of this session, which is a secret one, by the way, I want you guys to present Hen with the little testimonial which we prepared for him. His was a dangerous mission and he followed it to the letter … And now, before we get on with the business in hand, which is about the beer party to be held at Gifford’s home next Saturday night, I’m going to ask the little lady (a leer and a smirk here) to do one of her specialties. This number, I guess T don’t have to tell you, will be the well-known hoochee-koochee. She did it for the Mikado—no reason why she can’t do it for us. Anyway, you’ll notice she’s got nothing on, not even a fig-leaf. As an uproar threatened to break loose, he rapped sternly with his gavel. Before she begins her number let me say this to you fellows—I expect you to observe the performance in strict decorum. We’ve arranged this stunt, Hen and I, in order to arouse more interest in the activities of the club. The last few meetings were thoroughly disheartening. The real club spirit seems to have oozed away. This is a special meeting to bring out the old spirit of fellowship…

  Here he gave three quick raps with the gavel, whereupon a phonograph in the kitchen started playing the St. Louis Blues. Is everybody happy? he cooed. O.K. Helen, do your stuff! And remember, shake those ashes clean!

  The candelabras were removed to a sideboard against the wall; all but two of the candles had been snuffed out. Helen began writhing and twisting in the grand manner of the ancients. On the other wall her shadow repeated her movements in exaggerated style. It was a Japanese version of the belly dance which she was giving. One would have said she had been trained to it since childhood. Every muscle of her body was under control. Even her facial muscles she used with extraordinary skill, especially when simulating the convulsive movements of the orgasm. Not one of us twelve members budged from his rigid upright position. We sat there like trained seals, our hands motionless, our eyes following every little movement, which, as we knew, had a meaning all its own. As the last note died away George Gifford fell off his chair in a dead faint. Helen sprang from the table and ran into the kitchen. George Marshall rapped savagely with his gavel. Drag him out to the porch, he ordered, and douse his head in the bucket! Quick! We’ve got to get on with the minutes. This precipitated some grumbling and growling. Back to your places! shouted George Marshall. This is just the preliminary. Keep your shirts on and you’ll get a real treat. By the way, any one who feels like jerking off can excuse himself and go to the can.

  All but George Marshall and myself rose in a body and exeunted.

  You see what we’re up against, said George Marshall in a tone of utter despair. No matter what we cook up for them it’s hopeless. I’m going to make a move to dissolve the club. I want it read into the minutes in the regular way.

  Jesus, I begged, don’t do that! After all, they’re only human.

  That’s where you’re wrong, said George Marshall. They’re all picked men, they should know better. Last time we didn’t even have a quorum.

  What do you mean, they should know better,’

  Etiquette demands that you show no emotion. Nine of them are jerking off out there. The tenth one fainted. What are we coming to?

  Aren’t you just a bit severe?

  Have to be, Hen. We can’t coddle them forever.

  Just the same, I think…

  Listen, Hen, and he began to speak more rapidly, lowering his voice more and more. Nobody knows, except Charlie and me, what you went to Tokio for. You did a good job. They know all about it up above. This is just a little racket I thought up to throw dust in their eyes. After the meeting breaks up you, Charlie and me we’re gonna take Helen and go on a little bust. I didn’t want them to lose control or they might have pawed her to death. She’s fixing herself up in there … He gave me a slippery wink … Douching herself … A little alum, some Spanish fly. You know … My mother’s giving her a massage now. Look! He bent down to get something hidden under the table. See this? It was an enormous rubber penis filled with water. He gave a little squirt. Get the idea? That’s for Charlie. Don’t say a word about it, it’s a surprise. Being President’s no fun. He hasn’t had his end in for over a year now. There’s enough water in this—he shook the rubber penis lewdly—enough to make her piss from ears, eyes and nose.

  This is gonna be fun, Hen. All on the q.t., of course. My mother’s in on it, but she won’t squawk. I told you once, remember, that the sun rises and sets in her ass.

  Then he added something which completely dumbfounded me, so unlike George Marshall it was. Get this, Hen, he said, it’s right up your street: The man of India loves to see the waist bend under the weight of the breasts and the haunches; he likes long tapering forms and the single wave of the muscles as a movement surges through the whole body. Heroism and obscenity appear no more important in the life of the universe than the fighting or mating of a pair of insects in the woods. Everything is on the same plane.

  He gave me again that enormous, slippery horse-wink which had so terrified me. Do you get it, Hen? As I was saying a moment ago, the old urge is spent; we’ve got to find new blood. You and I are getting along in years; we can’t do these old tricks with the same verve and gusto. When the war comes I’m going to join the artillery.

  What war, George?

  He replied: No more of that trapeze business for me.

  The other members were now trooping back from the can. Never in my life had I seen such haggard, spent, dilapidated looking buggers. He’s right, thought I to myself, we’ve got to look for new blood.

  Quietly they resumed their places at the table, their heads wilting like dead flowers. Some of them looked as if they were in a deep trance. Georgie Gifford was munching a stalk of celery—the very picture, saving the beard, of a silly old he-goat. The whole damned bunch were a disgrace for sore eyes.

  A few raps of the gavel and the meeting was called to order. Those who are awake give heed! George Marshall began in a stern, peremptory voice. Once you called yourselves The Deepthinkers. You banded together to form an enclave, the famous Xerxes Society. You are no longer worthy of membership in this secret society. You have degenerated. Some of you have atrophied. In a moment I am going to call for a vote in order to dissolve the organization. But first I have something to say to our old president, Charlie Reilly. Here he gave the table a few vicious raps with the gavel. Are you awake, you miserable toad? I’m talking to you. Sit up straight! Button your fly! Now listen … In consideration of services rendered, I’m sending you back to the White House where you will serve another four years, if you’re re-elected. As soon as the meeting is over I want you to get into your cutaway a
nd striped trousers and beat it. You have just about enough wits left to meet the demands of the War Office. By holding your tongue nobody will be the wiser. You’re demoted, dissolved, discredited. Here he turned his head and fixed my attention; How was that, Hen? All according to Hoyle. what? He lowered his voice and, speaking with terrifying rapidity again, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth: This is for you, a special … Man will change nothing of his final destiny, which is to return sooner or later to the unconscious and the formless.

  With this he rose and, pulling me along, we rushed to the kitchen. A pall of smoke greeted us. As I was saying, Hen, we prepared a little surprise for you. With this he blew the smoke away. On either side of the kitchen table sat Mona and that mysterious creature with the long black hair whom I had seen a photograph of.

  What’s this? I exclaimed.

  Your wife and her friend. A couple of bull-dykers.

  Where’s Helen?

  Gone back to Tokio. We’re using these as substitutes. He gave me a terrific nudge and a slippery wink.

  Cromwell will be here in a minute, he said. It’s him you’ve got to thank for this.

  Mona and her lover were too busy playing euchre to even glance at us. They seemed hilarious. The strange creature will) the long hair was double-jointed; she had a fine moustache, firm breasts, and wore velvet trousers with gold braid down the sides. Exotic to the finger-tips. Every now and then they jabbed each other with the needle.

  A fine pair, I remarked. They belong in the Haymarket.

  Leave it to Cromwell, said George Marshall, he’s got it all arranged.

  He had no more than uttered the name when there was a rap at the door.

  That’s him, said George Marshall. Always on the dot.

  The door opened quietly, as if responding to a hidden spring. A man entered with a huge gory bandage wrapped around his skull. It was not Cromwell at all, it was Crazy Sheldon. I gave a shriek and fainted away.