The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  The town flat, as he called it, was one unholy mess. God knows when a broom had last been put to it. The kitchen was strewn with garbage which had lain there for weeks. Mice, ants, cockroaches, bedbugs, every sort of vermin infested the place. The tables, beds, chairs, divans, commodes were littered with papers, with open fileboxes, with cards, graphs, statistical tables, instruments of all kinds. There were at least five ink bottles uncorked. Partly eaten sandwiches lay among the heaps of letters. Cigarette butts were there by the hundreds.

  The place was so filthy, indeed, that Karen and his wife decided to go to a hotel for the night. They would return the next evening after we had tidied the place up as best we could. I was to do what I could with his files.

  We were so glad to be alone for a change that we didn’t mind the imposition. I had borrowed a ten spot from Karen so that we could get some food. As soon as they had left we went out to eat, and we ate well. An Italian dinner with some good red wine.—

  Returning to the flat we noticed the odor as we ascended the stairs. We’re not going to touch a thing, I said to Mona. Let’s get to bed and clear out in the morning. I’m fed up.

  Don’t you think we ought to see them at least and tell them we’re quitting?

  I’ll leave a note, I said. I’m too disgusted to prolong matters. I don’t feel that we owe them a thing.

  It took us an hour to clean the bedroom sufficiently to be comfortable for the night. At that we had to sleep between soiled sheets. No matter what one touched, it was out of order. To pull the shade down was like working out a mathematical problem. I came to the conclusion that the two of them were suffering from a mild case of dementia. Just as I was about to turn in I noticed on the shelf above the bed a row of hat boxes and shoe boxes. On each one was written an index number, indicating the size, color and condition of the hat or shoes. I opened them to see if they really contained hats and shoes. They did. None of them were in a condition to be worn by anyone bat a panhandler. This was the last straw for me.

  I tell you, I groaned, that guy’s batty. Crazy as a loon.

  We rose early, unable to sleep because of the bedbugs. We took a quick shower, examined our clothes thoroughly to make sure they were not infested, and prepared to decamp. I was just in the mood to write a note. I decided it should be a good one, because I intended never to see the two of them again. I looked I around for a suitable piece of paper. Catching sight of a big map on the wall, I ripped it down and, using the end of a broom handle which I dipped in a pot of paint, I scrawled a farewell in hieroglyphics tall enough to be read thirty yards away. With the back of my hand I shoved the things on the big work table on to the floor. I placed the map on the table and in the center of it I dumped a pile of the most ancient, the most reeking, garbage. I was sure he wouldn’t miss that. I took a final look about, so as to retain a lasting impression of the scene. I walked to the door, then suddenly turned back. One more thing was needed—a postscriptum to the note. Choosing a sharp-pointed pencil I wrote in a microscopic hand: To be filed under C, for catarrh, cleanliness, cantharides, cowbells, Chihuahua, Cochin-China, constipation, curlicues, crinology, cachinnation, coterminous, cow-flop, cicerone, cockroaches, cimex lectularius, cemeteries, crepes Suzette, corn-fed hogs, citrate of magnesia, cowries, cornucopia, castration, crotchets, cuneiform, cistern, cognomen, Cockaigne, concertina, cotyledons, crapulated, cosine, creasote, crupper, copulation, Clytemnestra, Czolgosz—and Blue Label catsup.

  My one regret, as we descended the stairs, was that I couldn’t leave my calling card on the table too.

  We had a jolly little breakfast in a lunch wagon opposite the Tombs during which we discussed our future, which was a complete blank.

  Why don’t you go to a movie this afternoon? said Mona. I’ll run over to Hoboken or somewhere and see what I can scrape up. Let’s meet at Ulric’s for dinner—how’s that?

  Fine, I said, but what will I do this morning? Do you realize it’s only eight o’clock?

  Why don’t you go to the Zoo? Take a bus. The ride will do you good.

  She couldn’t have made a better suggestion. I was in the proper mood to look at the creature world. Being foot-loose and free at that ungodly hour of the morning gave me a sense of superiority. I would sit on the upper deck and watch the busy toilers scurrying to their appointed tasks. I wondered for a moment what my mission in life might be. I had almost forgotten that I had intended to be a writer. I knew only one thing—I was not cut out to be a scavenger. Nor a drudge. Nor an amanuensis.

  At the corner I parted with Mona. At Fifth Avenue I hopped a bus going north and clambered up to the top deck. Free again! I inhaled a few deep draughts of ozone. As we came alongside Central Park I took a good look at the fading mansions which flank the Fifth Avenue side. Many of them I knew from having entered through the servants’ or tradesmen’s door. Yes, there was the Roosevelt home where, as a boy of fourteen, I delivered cutaway suits, tuxedos, alpaca jackets for the old man. I wondered if the elder Mr. Roosevelt, the banker, that is, and his four giant sons still walked five abreast to their office in Wall Street each morning—after having taken a gallop through the park, bien entendu. A little farther along I recognized old man Bendix’s mansion. The brother, who had a penchant for fancy vest buttons, was dead a long time. But H. W. was probably still alive and probably still grousing over the fact that his tailor had forgotten that he dressed on the right side. How I loathed that man! I smiled to think of the anger I had vented on him in days gone by. He was probably a very lonely, feeble old man now, attended by a faithful servant, a cook, a butler, a chauffeur and so on. How busy he always managed to keep himself! Truly, the rich are to be pitied.

  So it went … Reminiscence upon reminiscence. Suddenly I thought of Rothermel. I could just picture him getting out of bed with a hang-over, tripping over his own piss-pot, fuming, fussing, hopping around like a crow on one leg. Well, it would be a red-letter day for him, seeing Mona again. (I was sure she was headed in his direction.)

  Thinking of Rothermel’s early morning condition I got to ruminating on how various people I knew greeted the new day. It was a delightful game. From friends and acquaintances I moved over into the realm of celebrities—artists, actors and actresses, political figures, criminals, religious leaders, all classes and all levels. It grew positively fascinating when I began digging into the habits of the great historical personages. How did Caligula greet the day? A swarm of distant personalities suddenly took possession of my brain: Sir Francis Bacon, Mohammed the Great, Charlemagne, Julius Caesar, Hannibal, Confucius, Tamerlane, Napoleon at St. Helena, Herbert Spencer, Modjeska, Sir Walter Scott, Gustavus Adolphus, Friedrich Barbarossa, P.T. Barnum…

  Approaching Bronx Park I forgot what had led me to this spot. I was just rehearsing my first impressions of the three-ringed circus, that awesome moment in a boy’s life when he sees his idol in flesh and bone. Mine was Buffalo Bill. I loved him. To see him gallop into the center of the sawdust ring and doff his huge sombrero to the applauding spectators was something unforgettable. He has long locks, a goatee, and a big curling moustache. There is an elegance to the spectacular garb he sports. One hand holds the reins lightly, the other grasps the faithful rifle. In a moment he will display his unerring marksmanship. He is making the full circle of the arena first, his proud steed snorting fire. What a splendid figure of a man! His friends are the fierce Indian chiefs—Sioux, Comanches, Crows, Blackfeet.

  What a boy admires is unostentatious strength—skill, poise, flexibility. Buffalo Bill was the epitome of all these. We never saw him except in full costume and then only once a year—if we were lucky. In those few moments alloted to us he never missed a shot, never made an awkward move, never departed one iota from the ideal portrait we carried in our hearts. He never deceived us, never betrayed us. Always at par.

  Buffalo Bill was to us what Saladin was to his followers—and to his enemies. A boy never forgets his idols. Well, fuck a duck—here we are at the Zoo. The first thing I see is a g
iraffe. Then a Bengal tiger, then a rhinoceros, then a tapir. Ah, here are the monkeys! Home again. Nothing cleans out the psychological system like looking at wild animals. Tabula rasa. The very names of their habitats are inspiring. One drifts back into the old Adamic world where the serpent reigned supreme. Evolution explains nothing. We were all there together, from the beginning of time, and we will remain together until eternity. The stars and the constellations drift, the continents drift, man drifts together with his companions of antediluvian days—the armadillo, the dodo bird, the dinosaur, the sabre-toothed tiger, the diminutive horse of upper Mongolia. Everything in the cosmos is drifting towards some drifting point in space. And God Almighty is probably drifting too, together with his Creation.

  Drifting along, one with the Zoo and all its occupants, I suddenly had the clearest vision of Renee Tietjen. Renee was the sister of Richies Tietjen with whom I used to play as a boy of ten. He was like a bloodthirsty Zouave, this Richie. He would bite a piece out of you if you angered him. It was important, when choosing sides for a game of prisoner’s base, to have Richie on your side. Now and then Renee, his sister, would stand at the gate and watch us. She was about six years older than him, quite a woman already, and to us youngsters utterly ravishing. When you got close to her you inhaled the perfume which she used—or was it simply the fragrance of her delicious flesh? From the time I had ceased playing in that street I had never given a thought to Renee Tietjen. Now suddenly, and for no reason I could think of, her image danced before me. She was leaning on the iron fence beside the gate and the wind molded her thin silk dress about her limbs. I realized now what had made her so ravishing and unattainable: she was an exact replica of one of the medieval French madonnas. All light, and grace, chaste, seductive, with golden tresses and sea green eyes. Always silent, always seraphic. Buffeted by the wind, she swayed back and forth like a young willow. Her breasts, which were two nubile hemispheres, and the little tuft which adorned the pelvis, seemed extraordinarily alive and sensitive. They met the wind like the bulging contour of a ship’s prow. Within a few feet of her we were dashing about like mad bulls, ripping, slashing, biting, squealing, as if possessed. Renee always stood there imperturbable, her lips faintly parted in an enigmatic smile. Some said she had a lover who had jilted her. Some said she was lame. Not one of us had the courage to address her. She took her place at the railing and remained there like a statue. Now and then the wind lifted her skirt and we gasped when we caught sight of the milky flesh above her knees. Towards evening old man Tietjen would come trudging home, a long whip in his hand. Seeing Richie, his clothes torn, his face spattered with mud and blood, the old man would flick him with the whip. Richie never uttered a sound. The old man would greet his daughter surlily and disappear through the front door. A strange scene whose sequel we never knew.

  All this came back to me so vividly that I felt impelled to make a few notes immediately. I rushed frantically out of the park in search of paper and pencil. Now and then I stopped to make water. Finally I found a little stationery store run by an old Jewish woman. She was wearing one of those hideous wigs the color of a cockroach’s wings. For some reason she had difficulty in understanding me. I began making signs in the air. She thought I was deaf. She began to yell at me. I yelled back at her, drowning her with oaths. She grew frightened and ran to the back of the store to call for help. Baffled, I stood there a moment, then dashed into the street. A bus was standing at the corner. I got in and sat down. Beside me was a newspaper. I picked it up and began making notes, first in the margins, then across the black print. When we came to Morningside Park I furtively threw the paper out the window. I felt relieved, as relieved as if I had just had a good fuck. Renee had faded out, along with the giraffes, the camels, the Bengal tigers, the peanut shells and the sullen roar of the lions. I would tell Ulric all about it, he would enjoy it. Unless he was just in the midst of a banana campaign.

  9

  Once again we are living in a sedate neighborhood, not far from Fort Greene Park. The street is as wide as a boulevard, the houses set far back from the sidewalk, most of them of brownstone and adorned with high stoops of the same material. Some of the houses are veritable mansions flanked by immense lawns studded with shrubs and statues. Ample driveways lead to the stables and servants’ quarters in the rear. The whole atmosphere of this old neighborhood is redolent of the 80’s and 90’s. The remarkable thing about it is its state of preservation. Even the hitching posts are intact and gleaming, as if just wiped with an oil rag. Sumptuous, elegant, somnolescent, it seems like a wonderful haven to us.

  It was Mona, of course, who had found the two rooms. And once again, we had a congenial landlady, one of those witless young American widows who didn’t know what to do with herself. We had taken our furniture out of storage and fitted up the two rooms. The landlady was delighted to have us as tenants. She ate with us frequently. Quite a jolly creature, with a melodious voice and the indolence of a lost soul. Things promised to go well here. The rent was cheap, the gas, water and electricity functioned perfectly, an abundance of good food, movies afternoons and evenings, if we desired it, a game of cards now and then, to please the landlady, and no visitors. Not a soul knew our address. Where the funds came from I wasn’t too sure. Mathias, still in the offing, and Rothermel, more alive than ever, I knew contributed the bulk of it. But there must have been others, too, for we were living high. The landlady, of course, was liberal with food and drink, and often invited us to the theatre or took us to a cabaret. What fascinated her was that we were obviously artists—Bohemians, as she put it. Her husband had been an insurance agent and had left her a tidy sum. But he had been a pretty dull bird, according to her, and she intended to make merry now that he was gone.

  I rented a typewriter and began writing once more. Everything was just ducky. The beautiful silk bathrobe, the pajamas, the Moroccan slippers I wore, all were gifts from the landlady: heirlooms. The mornings were luxurious. We would get out of bed around ten, bathe leisurely while the phonograph played, then sit down to a delicious breakfast, usually prepared by the landlady. Always fresh fruit and berries smothered in cream, muffins fresh from the oven, thick strips of bacon, marmalade, steaming coffee with whipped cream. I felt like a pasha. Though I had no use for them, I was equipped with two beautiful cigarette cases and a long cigarette holder, which I used only at meal-time, and to please the good landlady who had given me them.

  I must stop calling her the landlady. Her name was Marjorie, and it suited her to a T. There was something lascivious about her, as if she were always picking up the scent. She had a beautiful figure and she displayed it freely, especially in the morning when all she wore was a filmy bathrobe. It didn’t take long before we were patting one another affectionately on the rump. She was the sort of woman who could grab your cock and make you laugh at the same time. One couldn’t help liking her, even if she were pockmarked, which she wasn’t. Everything she did was open and above-board. If you merely voiced a desire, she sought at once to appease it. Whatever she possessed was yours for the asking.

  What a change from Karen’s establishment! The meals alone were enough to put one in a state of divine contentment. Her rooms adjoined ours but the door between was never locked. We wandered to and fro at ease, as if we were sharing a common menage.

  After breakfast I would usually take a walk, to work up an appetite for lunch. It was early Fall and the weather was superb. Often I strolled to the Park and flopped on a bench to doze in the bright sunshine. A marvelous sense of well-being possessed me. No worries of any kind, no responsibilities, no intrusions. Completely my own master, and waited on hand and foot by two eager, beautiful women who treated me like a peacock. Faithfully each day I wrote for an hour or two; the rest of the day was—fuck, feast and fun. What I wrote must have been of slight consequence—probably dreams and fantasies. It was too good a life to inspire serious work. I wrote to, keep my hand in, nothing more. Now and then I knocked out something expressly for Marjo
rie’s benefit, something whimsical and humorous, which I would read aloud at table between sips of cognac or some precious liqueur from her inexhaustible stock. It wasn’t difficult to please either of them. All they demanded of me was to go through the motions.

  I wish I knew how to write, Marjorie would say sometimes. (To her the art of writing was sheer magic.) She wondered, for example, where I got my ideas. You hatch them, like eggs, I said. And those big words, Henry? She doted on them, mispronounced them deliberately, rolled them over on her tongue lasciviously. You sure can juggle them, she’d say. Sometimes she made up a tune in which she introduced these jaw-breakers. What a pleasure it was to hear her hum a tune—or whistle softly! Her sex seemed to move right up into her throat. Often she burst out laughing in the midst of a tune. Such laughter! As if she were getting her ashes hauled.

  Sometimes of an evening I would go for a solitary promenade. I knew the neighborhood intimately, having lived for a time right opposite the Park. Only a few blocks away—Myrtle Avenue was the boundary line—the slums commenced. After strolling through the sedate quarters it was a thrill to cross the line, to mingle with Italians, Filipinos, Chinese and other undesirables. A pungent odor invested the poor quarters: it was compounded of cheese, salami, wine, punk, incense, cork, dried fish skins, spices, coffee, stale horse piss, sweat and bad plumbing. The shops were full of nostalgic wares familiar from childhood. I loved the funeral parlors (the Italian ones especially), the religious shops, the junk shops, the delicatessen stores, the stationery stores. It was like passing from a cool, immaculate mausoleum into the thick of life. The tongues employed had a musical quality, even when it was nothing but an exchange of oaths. People dressed differently, each one in his own crazy fashion. The horse and wagon were still in evidence. Children were everywhere, amusing themselves with that lusty exuberance which only the children of the poor display. There were no longer the stereotyped wooden faces of the born American but racial types, all saturated with character.