3. THE FAST EXPRESS
OH HAVE another drink, Elizabeth! Thanks Elizabeth, I will. “The same, please,” she said to the riddled steward who like a eunuch moved indifferently to serve desires he no longer felt; and did not add “And hurry! hurry! for God’s sake hurry, between drinks one falls to thinking—and thinking, from the old Chinese, my boy, is a viper in the chest.” And a cigarette, my dear, can I tempt you? And another lover, can I find one quick enough? Chain drinker, chain smoker, chain lover, chain rover—let the chain sag somewhere and you will have a pain in the lung from cigarettes, a pain in the brain from Pernods, and God knows your soul will ache from undigested unloved lovers. But the steward has forgotten pain with joy, if he ever knew it he’s lost the need for quick oblivion; the God damned steward doesn’t hurry. My good steward you are a stranger to me but I must tell you all: only this morning he gave me the sack, the gate, le congé, he gave me the bum’s rush steward, he gave me back my own toothbrush, he gave me all he had to give and all he had was a bright red copy of Ulysses and my own American toothbrush. Life is the longest distance between two points my good man (even on board my fast express, my rollicking jittery fast express, my twentieth century sex-express), the bar is filled with strangers, all non-lovers, and Denny, my parenthetical Denny, is gone, gone, gone. Close parentheses bravely on the poor little unsatisfactory detour-amour. . . . Steward a drink for the lady!
You find yourself in the middle of the ocean, mademoiselle? Between two continents so to speak? A case of sink or swim at twenty-six? What is the object of your game, sister? Why have you left one island, why are you crossing madly (all aboard the fast express) to the other? Why will you eagerly seek on the second what you eagerly bid goodbye to on the first? All over the cockeyed world you have carried your tough little American body and your lamb-profile (so like Bruno’s)—and what has it got you, Elizabeth, if you will pardon a personal question? what have you today at twenty-six as over and above the ambiguous hopes you entertained six years ago when you left the first gay gent (name of Ferris, good old Ferris, good old art-colony Ferris) and trekked with your toothbrush to the second? Why, I am an emancipated lady, Elizabeth, I play the game like a man, Elizabeth—you donkey, you sentimentalist, you cry-baby, you sissy—what in hell do you want, every damn thing that’s going? The answer is Yes, Yes, Yes! But choice involves sacrifice, is largely a matter of elimination, Bruno pedantically said—oh quite some time ago, some years ago in fact, certainly before one started this endless chain, this fast non-stop express, of drinks and unloved lovers. Elizabeth your mind is a slop-pail, all odds and ends and floating twisted orange peels (goodbye, my dear Denny, we’re all washed up), orange peels and broken corks and busted truisms—from the damned Chinese—and you tell me my eyes have grown hard, my poor Denny—(steward will you hurry hurry hurry). And the only thing you’ve saved out of the fire my dear is your nasty destructive beloved wit, he said it was sharp as a razor-blade (who said it, which one said that to Elizabeth, was it Brownlow, good old Brownlow—what! mixing your drinks and mixing your lovers, Elizabeth!), he said I was Delilah going around stabbing men with my sharp razor-wit. Ah, here comes my double Scotch!
Set it up, my boy, my riddled ancient eunuch steward, your desires are dead but the melody—oh let’s not quote, Elizabeth! Let’s not quote and let’s not think, let’s never do anything but drink. Here’s to you Denny my darling, you can’t hold your liquor and you can’t hold your gals. Maybe if we had an understanding, he said politely, you know, hell with the romantic twaddle-twaddle, do you want me to get on my knees you fool, let’s have an understanding. Ah yes, the understanding that passeth love, arrangement instead of relationship—thanks darling, I’d rather have the toothbrush. So long Denny, so long France, so long Florence, Italy—hold everything, America, your wandering daughter’s coming home. Home is where you hang your hat and drop your skirt, my dear by the time I’m thirty I’ll be at home anywhere in this cockeyed world, I speak the universal language, the twentieth century snappy dead language, of no-love loving, of lust without love, I belong anywhere and nowhere (self-pity is the lowest form of wit), a gal without a country, a ship without a port—never mind America, I’m coming back to stay! Love without lust and lust without love, kisses don’t touch you, without them you’re lost. . . . Ah stranger, I see you, at yon corner table, give me the glad eye, the sad eye, the mad eye—professional glad girl, hysterical sad girl, the old army game is beginning again. Hold off a bit stranger, where’s your technique?
In the strange half-gloom of rainy attic afternoon, now that you’re in de-part-ment-al, Bruno said—and of course it was raining that day so they couldn’t go out to the carriage-step, so they sat there (are you sure your mother’s out? why yes, she went shopping with yours) sat there and talked in the strange half-gloom. Now that you’re in de-part-ment-al, Bruno said—and didn’t he just tell her what men could do to girls. But can’t the women do it back (steward one more of the same), she said: if I were a woman I would. But Bruno said no, oh Bruno said no, he said it was up to the man. But the girl can say no if she wants to, Bruno? That floored him a bit, he squirmed and scratched. Then he shot out, She better not—no one might love her and ask her again. So probably love is all that counts (she asked it then and she asked it again). She said would he do it to her; he said no. Of course not, he said. You’re crazy, he said, growing angry. She said there was nobody else she loved, no other man except her father, nobody else she knew so well. Bruno said she was practically his kid sister and everybody knew that cousins didn’t ‘love’ that way. She grew mad and indignant, she reminded him bitterly how he sneaked into the nursery at night and tried to scare her, telling her she was an adopted child and not her own mother’s baby at all, not his cousin, not her own nice uncle’s niece; if she was adopted surely it was all right? And Bruno said if she told anybody what he told her in the strange half-gloom of rainy attic afternoon he’d pull her damn braids out and he said further that he’d tell how she had shown him where women were different and then he ran downstairs and she ran after him and he jumped on his new two-wheeler and pedalled fiercely down the street and she ran a little way after him and then stopped and stood crying before the house.
Probably love is all that counts (in the long slow days of the carriage-step, in the gently rolling endless days before one boarded the fast express) probably love is all that counts? It took him seven years to answer that one, by that time my hair was up in braids, yes Bruno I know it’s high time I know I ought to go off the deep end but all the boys I see are stupid, I don’t like any of them, it’s true I’m going to be an artist and I have to be free to be an artist, but what can I do if the boys are all stupid? The sooner you get rid of sentimental notions, kid, he said; you’re not in de-part-ment-al any more, he said; don’t be obsessed by inhibitions, don’t be possessed by superstitions; you’ve got to be free, my dear, free, as free as a man, you must play the man’s game and beat him at it; read the books Betsey, you’ll see, it’s a matter of health mental and physical, a small fact of science, of scientific friction; romantic frustration—the hell with all that; be light, be free, be casual; why don’t you try an art colony, kid? no use postponing, no use frustrating, freedom’s the password the byword the slyword, don’t get possessed, cruise around kid, see what it’s about; listen to me Elizabeth, I’ll make a man of you yet! Love without lust and lust without love, poor haywire play-girl, drink-sodden gay girl (stick around stranger, have patience, stranger)—hell with it, steward—one more of the same!
Steward a drink for the lady—the lady is lost, the lady has boarded the fast express, all aboard ladies and gay modern gents, try an art colony first, all aboard, no stops no halts no brooding there, all aboard the twentieth century unlimited, hell-bent for nowhere, the only non-stop through express, try and get off it kid once you’re on board, no peace for the young, no rest for the restless, the rollicking jittery cocktail express, nothing can matter so wear down, you nerves, no brakes,
no goal, no love, on we go glittering jittering twittering, try and get off it kid once you’re on board, it’ll rattle you shatter you, if you jump out you’re lost, stick with it girl, where’s all your masculine guts? The smart young adages race down the tracks, the train runs on theory, the passengers’ nerves, the train roars on no stop no change, no love just lust, goodbye home and hello France, goodbye France, I’m coming, home—love without lust and lust without love, the country’s on the breadlines, the deadlines, the redlines, have a heart America, I’m coming home to stay.
Listen steward, so I went to the art colony, don’t you see, he put me on the train, he put me on the fast express and filled my pockets with quotations from the old Chinese. Throw out the notions that possess you, outmoded superstitions of a bygone day. We’re not the children of our parents, we’re the parents of the new. Shake yourself free, Elizabeth, step out boldly like a man. So I went with too much rouge on my lips and I met Ferris and we had a drink and he said why don’t you move over into my studio, my girl left Saturday. But isn’t it, I said timidly, but isn’t it, I started shyly—isn’t it—please tell me—a little bit cheap? Cheap, that’s a good one! cheap! that’s a hot one! he roared till the blood burned his face. Cheap—what you see around here isn’t cheap—why it’s better than that, he said, laughing and laughing—it’s free! Steward you can see for yourself the lady needs another drink.
(Why stranger, you are growing bold! Is that a smile mixed up with your moustache? Moustache like Ferris, eyes like Brownlow, nothing like Denny—will I never know a whole new man again? just carbon copies, slightly blurred? Hold off a bit, stranger, let me get my bearings, stranger, I’m tired as hell, mister, and I can’t find my lipstick . . .)
Oh artists, artists, I said I was tired of artists going about with their tongues hanging out of their mouths bored wanting a woman not wanting a woman, what kind of men are they talking so freely to girls about how hard it is to make a girl how easy it is to make a girl, how long do they think a girl can listen to that with her mouth open politely smiling, politely sympathizing, politely laying bets on sorority-sisters and all the time the sex in herself drying up and sitting like a ball of rotten cheese in her lap. Something’s the matter with sex these days, these twentieth century rollicking days, either there’s too much or too little anyway it’s too easy (free, not cheap, that’s a hot one!) sitting up finding yourself in bed with a man you don’t like and yet there you are both tired both a little sick with too much intimacy sitting up in bed and talking about how good a ham sandwich would go with a bottle of beer and if only we were in good old Paris. Well I’ve been in Paris, Ferris my friend, and it’s the same thing there, “I’ll show you Florence, Italy.” Oh artists, artists, I said I was tired of artists—and anyway you’ve got to play the man’s game, Betsey-Elizabeth, the man runs fast, the girl must run faster, look sharp Elizabeth here comes your train, pack up your toothbrush, your hard-bristle toothbrush, wave him goodbye, all aboard, all aboard, all aboard ladies and gay modern gents, all aboard the gay twentieth century, hell-bent for nowhere, the sex-express. Steward something tells me I will have another drink.
Listen steward, I’ll tell you the story of my latest, the latest notch in my belt, this arty, helpless newspaper reporter, my Denny (I wish he were here). I’ll make a story of it for you, steward my dear, a twentieth century three-month detour, rollicking parenthesis on the sex-express. Her wit almost abandoned her, mister steward, as they sat forgetting the others at the little round table in the café while the plates piled up at their elbows. On the third Pernod she discovered that cleft in his chin which promised weakness. Out with the scissors, Delilah, out with your good sharp razor-blade wit. Leaning toward him, leaning toward the stranger Denny, she took a shot in the dark at that cleft in his wavering chin: So at thirty-three you’re still reporting for the newspapers, Mister Kirby, incoming boats, outgoing boats, what did she wear, whom will he marry—well, well, well, wouldn’t your old high school English teacher be just too proud? Would you mind, Mister Kirby, lowering your head a bit, I am doing a drawing of you, one of my nasty satiric caricatures; your head must be lowered as though you were about to buck the world, but you and I of course will know better—have another Pernod, Mister?—we will know all along, and keep it between us, that you hold your head down because you would be ashamed to look your old English teacher in the eye. He narrowed his eyes and hated her; but then he lowered his head (exactly as that nasty girl was drawing him) as though he were ashamed to look her in the eye; and smiling with charm and sheepishness, the cleft in his chin going in as though weakly receiving her thrust, he met her eyes with a look of recognition; they smiled and they knew they would be lovers, unloving lovers on the fast express. (Steward do you see that impertinent gentleman at yon corner table? that look in his eyes, it’s familiar, he knows, . . . try and get off it kid, once you’re on board . . .)
The first month steward, we laid serious plans for his breaking away and doing a novel; he leaned on me utterly; bowed his head; reached out to what seemed my superior strength. But the girl couldn’t take it, it looked like love. Good old Denny, grovelling in the dust, Elizabeth will join you and grovel too. Have a Pernod, Denny, what’s it all about? what’s the object of the game? suppose you did write a novel, it would be a rotten novel, what have you got to say, what matters enough to write about? And look at my drawing, my poor defeated unloved lover, look at my lousy, phony, stinking-cynical drawing. Caricatures! Destructive, defeatist, escapist—but let’s not go high-brow, let’s take up drinking again, la Frump will serve us Pernods with our chocolat. He ought to have yelled at me, steward, throttled me, burned our damn bridges behind us, he ought to have shouted that we strike out together and aim at decency in art and life. But why? what for? and what is decency? these things are pleasanter discussed in our cups. He liked finding his girl as weak as himself. His lovable weak smile was for both of us now. In the second month we went back to drinking Pernods; in the third month we barely held our jobs for sleeping the Pernods off. Delilah conquering? Delilah triumphing? Why not at all my dear steward, I should have thought you keener—I feel like hell, while with my sharp phony-razor-blade wit I cut out his strength I cut out my own as well. What will become of us, Denny my dear, my lost abandoned unloved lover, weeping together over Ulysses we wept because we could not weep, we wept because we could not love, we wept because we loved before, we care about nothing, believe in nothing, live for nothing, because we are free, free, free—like empty sailboats lost at sea . . . and Bruno withheld his consent to our marriage.
Bruno, Bruno, help me out, catch me careening in my mad pace, let me rest for once and catch my breath. “We are scared till the blood in our veins runs thin and we must hop from one person to the next because to stay is too unbearably exactly what we want.” Bruno, we’re unhappy. Bruno, we’re mad. Bruno, explain it to me, tell me the object of the game. You’ve told me what to turn my back on; what, my darling, can I face? Tell me why I went away, tell me why I’m coming back. Tell me if there’s an end to my endless journey, why did you put me on this fast express. Where am I going and why, is there no end but more Pernods and men? Probably love is all that counts? and love is not to be found these days, or not to be looked in the face when it’s there? What do we hide from, Bruno, what do we seek? I’m so gay, I’m so light, I bounce here and there like a bright rubber ball; and yet the look in my eyes is hard, is hard, my wit is like a razor-blade, I use it to wound before I can be wounded, my wit protects me like a glittering twittering barbed wire fence and no one can come through and touch me. Each year I shrink smaller, I huddle together, and the barbs on my fence grow sharper and brighter, I am gayer and harder, my voice grows brittle, my laugh grows harsh. Love, don’t touch me; love, keep your hands off this proud modern daughter; happiness girl, no brooding there, it’s a matter of friction, of scientific friction; if you go sentimental you have only yourself to blame, don’t be obsessed by inhibitions, don’t be possessed by ol
d traditions. (Ah stranger, I see you, at yon corner table, you know me, you know me, as if I were naked.) Haywire play-girl, drink-sodden gay-girl, self-pity is the lowest form of wit, wit is the purest form of self-pity. I was tired of artists, artists, I’m tired of unloved lovers, Bruno what is the object of my game? Hell-bent for what is my fast express, my jingling jangling cocktail express, lust without love and joy without joy, we pound down the tracks on our sex-express, no stopping, no loving, no time to take breath. Goodbye Ferris, give me my toothbrush, hello Arthur Brownlow I’m not stopping long—my toothbrush, my toothbrush, my fast train is leaving, I must run, I must catch it, no I won’t forget you, I’ll chalk you up, I’ll put a notch in my belt to remember you by. . . . Bruno, Bruno, another gent has bit the dust. What am I, your father-confessor, Elizabeth? No darling, you’re something else again—I don’t know what, procurer, vicarious cousin; my dear, you’re my only stop, you’re where I climb down and take breath, my link with the past, the peaceful past . . . before I change trains and jingle jangle along again on my fast express, the non-stop, non-loving twentieth century unlimited, the haywire cocktail express, the gay and happy sex-express, hell-bent for nowhere. . . .
Steward, the stranger approaches my table. The eye of a man, the eye of a man, looking down into hers, it’s the old army game, the train’s roaring again. “Can I sit here,” he said. But why did he ask. He was sitting already, his knee touching hers. Two drinks on the table, two knees underneath. A Jew too—medical student perhaps? haberdasher? son of a cobbler drifting toward socialism? All Jews look like anything, all Jews look like Bruno, all Jews are not Denny. Welcome, stranger! sholom aleichem, my poor fellow-passenger! I give you the glad eye, the sad eye, the mad eye. You steadily give it back. Know the rules, do you, my boy? Know how the game goes on, steadily, stealthily, know how to play it with languor and skill? “You’re sure you don’t mind,” he said brittley, bitterly. “I have whiskey in my cabin,” he said, sly easy gent; “want to come down awhile”—carelessly, casual. “You talk quite a lot, I see,” he said, lonesome and human.
The Unpossessed Page 12