by Henry Miller
How old is she? I ventured to ask.
How old? I don’t know. Maybe twenty-two or three. She has no age. You don’t think of such things when you look at her. She’s the most extraordinary being I’ve ever met—outside of yourself, Val.
An artist, I suppose?
She’s everything. She can do anything.
Does she paint?
Of course! She paints, scuplts, makes puppets, writes poetry, dances—and with it all she’s a clown. But a sad clown, like you.
You don’t think she’s nuts?
I should say not! She does queer things, but only because she’s unusual. She’s about as free a person as I’ve ever seen, and tragic to boot. She’s really unfathomable.
Like Claude, I suppose.
She smiled. In a way, she said. Funny you mentioned him. You ought to see the two of them together. They look as if they hailed from another planet.
So they know each other?
I introduced them to one another. They get along splendidly, too. They talk their own private language. And do you know, they even resemble one another physically.
I suppose she’s a bit on the mannish side, this Anapopoulos or whatever it is?
Not really, said Mona, her eyes glistening. She prefers to dress in men’s clothes because she feels more comfortable that way. She’s more than a mere female, you see. If she were a man, I’d speak the same way. There’s some added quality in her which is beyond sexual distinction. Sometimes she reminds me of an angel, except that there’s nothing ethereal or remote about her. No, she’s very earthy, almost coarse at times … The only way to explain it to you, Val, is to say that she’s a superior being. You know how you felt about Claude? Well … Anastasia is a tragic buffoon. She doesn’t belong in this world at all. I don’t know where she belongs, but certainly not here. The very tone of her voice will tell you that. It’s an extraordinary voice, more like a bird’s than a human being’s. But when she gets angry it becomes frightening.
Why, does she fly into rages frequently?
Only when people insult her or make fun of her.
Why do they do that?
I told you—because she’s different. Even her walk is unique. She can’t help it, it’s her nature. But it makes me furious to see the way she’s treated. There never was a more generous, reckless soul. Of course she has no sense of reality. That’s what I love about her.
What do you mean by that exactly?
Just what I said. If someone came along who needed a shirt she’d take hers off—right in the street—and give it to the person. She’d never think about the fact that she was indecently exposed. She’d take her pants off too, if necessary.
You don’t call that mad?
No, Val, I don’t. For her it’s the natural, sane thing to do. She never stops to think of consequences; she doesn’t care what people think of her. She’s genuine through and through. And she’s as sensitive and delicate as a flower.
She must have had a strange bringing up. Did she tell you anything about her parents, anything about her childhood?
A little.
I could see that she knew more than she cared to reveal. o
She was an orphan, I believe. She said the people who adopted her were very kind to her. She had everything she wanted.
Well, let’s get to bed, what do you say?
She went to the bathroom to go through the usual interminable routine. I got in bed and waited patiently. The door to the bathroom was open.
By the way, I said, thinking to divert her mind, how is Claude these days? Anything new?
He’s leaving town in a day of two.
Where to?
He wouldn’t say. I have a notion he’s heading for Africa.
Africa? Why would he be going there?
Search me! It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if he said he were going to the moon. You know Claude…
You’ve said that several times now, and always the same way. No, I don’t know Claude, not like you mean. I know only what he chooses to tell, nothing more. He’s an absolute conundrum to me.
I heard her chuckling to herself.
What’s so funny about that? I asked.
I thought you understood one another perfectly.
No one will ever get to understand Claude, said I. He’s an enigma, and he’ll remain an enigma.
That’s just the way I feel about my friend.
Your friend, said I a little testily. You hardly know her and you speak of her as if she were a life-long friend.
Don’t be silly. She is my friend—the only friend I’ve ever had.
You sound as if you were infatuated…
I am! She appeared at the right moment.
Now what does that mean?
That I was desperate, lonely, miserable. That I needed someone I could call a friend.
What’s come over you anyway? Since when have you needed a friend? I’m your friend. Isn’t that enough for you? I said it mockingly, but I was half in earnest.
To my astonishment she replied: No, Val, you’re not my friend any more. You’re my husband, and I love you … I couldn’t live without you, but…
But what?
I had to have a friend, a woman friend. Someone I can confide in, someone who understands me.
Well I’ll be damned! So that’s it? And you mean you can’t confide in me?
Not like I can in a woman. There are some things you just can’t tell a man, even if you love him. Oh, they’re not big things, don’t worry. Sometimes little things are more important than big things, you know that. Besides, look at you … you’ve got loads of friends. And when you’re with your friends you’re a different person entirely. I used to envy you sometimes. Maybe I was jealous of your friends. Once I thought that I could be everything to you. But I see I was wrong. Anyway, now I have a friend—and I’m going to keep her.
Half teasingly, half seriously, I said: Now you want to make me jealous, is that it?
She came out of the bathroom, knelt beside the bed and put her head in my arms. Val, she murmur-ad, you know that isn’t true. But this friendship is something very dear and very precious to me. I don’t want to share her with anyone, not even with you. Not for a while, at least.
All right, I said. I get it. My voice sounded a trifle husky, I noticed.
Gratefully she burbled: I knew you’d understand.
But what is there to understand? I asked. I said it softly and gently.
That’s it, she answered, nothing, nothing. It’s only natural. She bent forward and kissed me affectionately on the lips.
As she got to her feet to put out the lights I said impulsively: You poor girl! Wanting a friend all this time and I never knew it, never suspected it. I guess I must be a dumb, insensitive bugger.
She switched off the lights and crawled into bed. There were twin beds but we used only one.
Hold me tight, she whispered. Val, I love you more than ever. Do you hear me?
I said nothing, just held her tight.
Claude said to me the other day—are you listening?—that you were one of the few.
One of the elect, is that it? I said jokingly.
The only man in the world for me.
But not a friend…
She put her hand over my mouth.
Every night it was the same theme song—My friend ‘Stasia. Varied, of course, to add a little spice, with tall tales of the annoying attentions lavished upon her by an incongruous quartette. One of them—she didn’t even know his name—owned a string of book stores; another was the wrestler, Jim Driscoll; the third was a millionaire, a notorious pervert, whose name—it sounded incredible—was Tinkelfels; the fourth was a mad individual who was also somewhat of a saint. Ricardo, this last-named, appealed to me warmly, assuming that her description of him tallied with reality. A quiet, sober individual who spoke with a strong Spanish accent, had a wife and three children whom he loved dearly, was extremely poor but made lavish gifts, was kind and gentle—tender
as a lamb—wrote metaphysical treatises which were unpublishable, gave lectures to audiences of ten or twelve, et patati et patata. What I liked about him was this—each time he accompanied her to the subway, each time he said good-night, he would clutch her hands and murmur solemnly: If I can’t have you, nobody will. I will kill you.
She came back to Ricardo again and again, saying how much he thought of Anastasia, how beautifully he treated her, and so forth. And each time she brought up his name she would repeat his threat, laughing over it as if it were a great joke. Her attitude began to annoy me.
How do you know he won’t keep his word some day? I said one night.
She laughed even harder at this.
You think it’s so impossible, do you?
You don’t know him, said she. He’s one of the gentlest creatures on earth.
That’s precisely why I think he’s capable of doing it. He’s serious. You’d better watch yourself with him.
Oh, nonsense! He wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Maybe not. But he sounds passionate enough to kill the woman he loves.
How can he be in love with me? It’s silly. I don’t show him any affection. I hardly listen to him, in fact. He talks to Anastasia more than to me.
You don’t have to do anything, you only need to be. He’s got a fixation. He isn’t mad. Unless it’s madness to fall in love with an image You’re the physical image of his ideal, that’s obvious. He doesn’t need to plumb you, or even to get a response from you. He wants to gaze at you eternally—because you’ve incarnated the woman of his dreams.
That’s just the way he talks, said Mona, somewhat taken aback by my words. You two would get on wonderfully together. You speak the same language. I know he’s a sensitive creature, and a most intelligent one, too. I like him enormously, but he gets in my hair. He has no sense of humor, none whatever. When he smiles he looks even sadder than usual. He’s a lonely soul.
It’s a pity I don’t know him, I said. I like him more than anyone you’ve talked about. He sounds like a real human being. Besides, I like Spaniards. They’re men…
He’s not a Spaniard—he’s Cuban.
Same thing.
Not, it isn’t, Val. Ricardo told me so himself. He despises the Cubans.
Well, no matter. I’d like him even if he were a Turk.
Maybe I could introduce him to you, said Mona suddenly. Why not?
I reflected a moment before answering.
I don’t think you’d better, said I. You couldn’t fool a man like that. He’s not a Cromwell. Besides, even Cromwell isn’t the fool you take him to be.
I never said he was a fool!
But you tried to make me believe so, you can’t deny that.
Well, you know why. She gave me one of her faun-like smiles.
Listen, sister, I know so much more about you and your wiles than you’d ever give me credit for that it hurts to even mention the subject.
You have a great imagination, Val. That’s the reason why I sometimes tell you so little. I know how you build things up.
But you must admit I build on a firm foundation!
Again the faun-like smile.
Then she busied herself with something, in order to hide her face.
A pleasant sort of pause intervened. Then, out of a clear sky I suddenly remarked—I suppose women are obliged to lie … it’s in their nature. Men lie too, of course, but so differently. Women seem to have an unholy fear of the truth. You know, if you could stop lying, if you could stop playing this foolish, unnecessary game with me, I think…
I noticed that she had halted whatever it was she was pretending to be doing. Maybe she’ll really listen. I thought to myself. I could see only the side of her face. The expression was one of intense alertness. Of wariness too. Like an animal.
I think I would do anything you asked of me. I think I would even surrender you to another man, if that was what you wished.
These unexpected words of mine gave her intense relief, or so it seemed. What it was she had imagined I would say I don’t know. A weight had fallen off her shoulders. She came over to me—I was sitting on the edge of the bed—and sat beside me. She put a hand on mine. The look which stole into her eyes was one of utter sincerity and devotion.
Val, she began, you know I would never make such a demand of you. How could you say such a thing? Maybe I do tell you fibs now and then, but not lies. I couldn’t keep anything vital from you—it would give me too much pain. These little things … these fibs … I make them up because I don’t want to hurt you. There are situations sometimes which are so sordid that, even to relate them to you, I feel would soil you. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I’m made of coarser fibre. I know what the world is like. You don’t. You’re a dreamer. And an idealist. You don’t know, nor will you ever suspect, much less believe, how wicked people are. You see only the good side of everyone. You’re pure, that’s what. And that’s what Claude meant when he said you were one of the few. Ricardo is another pure soul. People like you and Ricardo should never be involved in ugly things. I get involved now and then—because I’m not afraid of contamination. I’m of the world. With you I behave like another being. I want to be what you’d like me to be. But I’ll never be like you, never.
I wonder now, said I, what people would think—people like Kronski, O’Mara, Ulric, for example—if they heard you talking this way.
It doesn’t matter what other people think, Val. I know you. I know you better than any of your friends, no matter, how long they’ve known you. I know how sensitive you are. You’re the tenderest creature alive.
I’m beginning to feel frail and delicate, with all this.
You’re not delicate, said she feelingly. You’re tough—like all artists. But when it comes to the world, I mean dealing with the world, you’re just an infant. The world is vicious through and through. You’re in it, all right, but you’re not of it. You lead a charmed life. If you meet with a sordid experience you convert it into something beautiful.
You talk as if you knew me like a book.
I’m telling you the truth, am I not? Can you deny it?
She put her arm around me lovingly and brushed her cheek against mine.
Oh Val, maybe I’m not the woman you deserve, but I do know you. And the more I know you the better I love you. I’ve missed you so much lately. That’s why it means so much to me to have a friend. I was really getting desperate—without you.
O.K. But we were beginning to behave like two spoiled children, do you realize that? We expected everything to be handed to us on a platter.
I didn’t! she exclaimed. But I wanted you to have the things you craved. I wanted you to have a good life—so that you could do all the things you dream about. You can’t be spoiled! You take only what you need, no more.
That’s true, I said, moved by this unexpected observation. Not many people realize that. I remember how angry my folks got when I came home from Church one Sunday morning and told them enthusiastically that I was a Christian Socialist. I had heard a coal miner speak from the pulpit that morning and his words had struck home. He called himself a Christian Socialist. I immediately became one too. Anyway, it ended up with the usual nonsense … the folks saying that Socialists were concerned only with giving away other people’s money. ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ I demanded. The answer was: ‘Wait till you’ve earned your own money, then talk!’ That seemed to me a silly argument. What did it matter, I asked myself, whether I earned money or didn’t earn money? The point was that the good things of life were unjustly distributed. I was quite willing to eat less, to have less of everything, if those who had little might be better off. Then and there it occurred to me how little one really needs. If you’re content you don’t need material treasures … Well, I don’t know why I got off on that! Oh yes! About taking only what I need … I admit, my desires are great. But I also can do without. Though I talk a lot about food, as you know, I really don’t require much. I want just enough to be a
ble to forget about food, that’s what I mean. That’s normal, don’t you think?
Of course, of course!
And that’s why I don’t want all the things you seem to think would make me happy, or make me work better. We don’t need to live the way we were. I gave in to please you. It was wonderful while it lasted, sure. So is Christmas. What I dislike more than anything is this perpetual borrowing and begging, this using people for suckers. You don’t enjoy it either, I’m sure of it. Why should we deceive each other about it, then? Why not put an end to it?
But I have!
You stopped doing it for me, but now you’re doing it for your friend Anastasia. Don’t lie to me, I know what I’m saying.
It’s different in her case, Val. She doesn’t know how to earn money. She’s even more of a child than you.
But you’re only helping her to remain a child—by aiding her the way you do. I don’t say that she’s a leech. I say this—you’re robbing her of something. Why doesn’t she sell her puppets, or her paintings, or her sculpture?
Why? She laughed outright at this. For the same reason that you can’t sell your stories. She’s too good an artist, that’s why.
But she doesn’t have to sell her work to art dealers—let her sell direct to individuals. Sell them for a song! Anything to keep afloat. It would do her good. She’d really feel better for it.
There you go again! Shows how little you know the world. Val, you couldn’t even give her work away, that’s how things are. If you ever get a book published you’ll have to beg people to accept copies gratis. People don’t want what’s good, I tell you. People like you and Anastasia—or Ricardo—you have to be protected.
To hell with writing, if that’s how it is … But I can’t believe it! I’m no writer yet, I’m nothing but a tyro. I may be better than editors think I am, but I’ve a long way to go yet. When I really know how to express myself people will read me. I don’t care how bad the world is. They will, I tell you. They won’t be able to ignore me.
And until then?
Until then I’ll find some other way of making a living.
Selling encyclopaedias? Is that a way?