Requiem for a Dream

by Hubert Selby

  Sara slowly awakened in the middle of the night and though she tried for many long seconds to fight it, eventually she got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to relieve the urgent pressure of her bladder. She tried to blink her eyes open, but they were unyielding to her attempts and so she kept them almost completely closed as she sat thinking thin. Though still partially asleep, her mind clouded and fogged, she was still aware of the water passing through her body and the reason for its abundance—thin, thin, thin — she suddenly straightened up—zophtic, zophtic, zophtic — Why should I settle for second best? Still half asleep she stood for a few seconds watching and listening to the whirling water in the bowl with joy because she knew that not only unwanted pounds were going down the drain and ultimately to the ocean, but an old life, a life of loneliness, a life of futility, of being unnecessary. Sometimes her Harry needed her, but… She listened to the music of the water filling the flush tank and smiled through her haze of partial wakefulness, knowing that freshness was filling her and soon she would be a new Sara Goldfarb. The fresh water in the bowl was crystal clear and looked cool and refreshing, even in a toilet bowl it looked cool. Clean is clean and new is new… Still I/ll drink from the faucet, thank you. Sara went back to bed, a slight bounce to her step. The sheets felt cool and refreshing as she lay down and rubbed her fingertips up and down on the silky smoothness of her nightgown, sinking deeper into a smile, a smile that she saw reflected on the inner surface of her eyelids. She breathed slowly and deeply then sighed long and happily as she floated in the weightless joy between sleep and wakefulness and dozily felt the sensations tingle through her body and then seem to disappear somewhere in her toes as she cuddled into the light fluffmess of her old pillow and kissed herself goodnight and sailed eagerly into the comfort of her dreams.

  Harry was still wired when he got back to Marions pad. She gave him a couple of sleeping pills and they sat on the couch for a while, smoking a joint, until Harry started to yawn and then they went to bed and slept through the dreary heat of the day.

  Today the hair was perfect. Such a color. It was so gorgeous it makes you want to jump out a window. Now you should hurry up and get on the show before the roots grow out. Believe me, I want to, but Im glad theyre waiting until I lose more weight. When I walk across the stage its a hush youll hear. I/ll look over my shoulder and say I vant to be alone. So now youre Swedish American? They chuckled and Sara went back to her apartment to see how her red dress would look, now, with her red hair. She put it on, and the gold shoes, and posed and twisted and turned in front of the mirror, holding the back of the dress as close together as possible. It seemed to come a little closer. She could feel that she lost weight. She wiggled and squealed and smiled at her reflection, then threw herself a kiss, Youre gorgeous, a living doll. She wiggled and squealed again, kissed her hand then grinned at her reflection, A Greta Garbo youre not, but youre no Wallace Beery either. She looked over her shoulder in the direction of the refrigerator, See, Mr. Smartypants, Mr. Fancy Dancy Herring Tidbits? Already its almost fitting. A few more inches, more or less, and I/ll fit in nice and snug thank you very much. Keep your herring. Whose needing? I love my egg and grapefruit. And lettuce. She posed and pranced for a while longer, then decided to eat her lunch and go out and get some sun. She took the egg, grapefruit and lettuce out of the refrigerator, an expression of smug superiority on her face. She tossed her head contemptuously at the refrigerator and hit the door with her tuchis. So, hows by you Mr. Big Mouth? You see how I look and youre speechless. She vamped in front of the refrigerator then proceeded to fix her lunch, humming, singing, wiggling, feeling safe and cocky. When she finished her lunch she washed the dishes, put them away, got her chair and, before leaving the apartment, kissed her fingertips and patted the refrigerator, Dont cry, dolly. As my Harry would say, Be cool. She chuckled, turned off the television, and left the apartment and joined the ladies sitting in the sun. She put her chair in a good spot and closed her eyes and faced the sun like the others. They didnt change positions as they talked, but continued to look straight ahead in the direction of the sun, turning their chairs occasionally so the sun would always be shining directly on their faces. Know yet what show? Are you hearing anything? How could I hear? I just mailed it yesterday. Maybe tomorrow. It might even be longer. So whats the difference what show? Thats how I feel. Its the television thats the important thing. Theyll let you know ahead of time? What are they going to do, tell her after the show? You can bring friends? Sara shrugged, So how should I know? They should let you bring at least a schlepper. Whose going to carry all those prizes? Believe me I/ll get them home. Especially Robert Redford. For him I dont need a schlepper. The women chuckled and nodded as they continued to stare at the sun, and women who were walking by stopped to talk with Sara and by the time she had been sitting there for half an hour all the women in the neighborhood were knotted around her talking, asking, chuckling, hoping, wishing. Sara felt warmed not only by the sun but by all the attention she was suddenly receiving. She felt like a star.

  Marion bought some sketch pads and pencils and charcoal. She also bought a sharpener and a spray can of fixit. She wanted to buy some pastel chalks, but for some reason what they had didnt appeal to her so she let it go for now. She could always get them later. Maybe in a few days she would get down town and roam around the large art supply stores and smell and touch the canvas, the stretcher strips, easels and brushes and just sort of browse. She had no intention of buying any oils until she had a studio, but she did want to do some watercolors. Thats where her head was really at right now. She could feel that light, delicacy within her that she knew she could transform into beautiful and fragile watercolors. Yes, that was what she liked most about watercolors, their fragility. She couldnt wait. She had this incredible urge to paint a single rose standing in a slender vase of translucent blue, Venetian glass, or perhaps lying on a piece of velvet. Yes, that would be lovely too. With just a hint of shadow. So delicate and fragile that you can smell its fragrance. Well we/ll see. Perhaps in a few days. But for now some sketching to help to reanimate the eye and hand. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to draw everything she saw as she walked the street, everything had such a vibrance, such a life. She quickly noticed the shapes of noses, eyes, ears; the planes of faces, the cheek bones, chins; the curve of necks; and hands. She loved hands. You can tell so much from hands and the way the fingers are shaped and primarily the way people hold and treat their hands. She was quite young, a child, the first time she saw a picture of Michelangelos Creation and when she saw the detail of God giving life to Adam the image was immediately and irrevocably implanted in her mind. The more she studied painting in the later years the more impressed she was with the simple conception behind that image and the incredible story in the attitude of the two hands. It was an attitude that she tried to incorporate in her work and every now and then she felt she had succeeded, at least to some degree. She wanted to simply, and directly, tell the viewer something about the painting with the attitude of the object whether human or otherwise, to transpose her inner feelings to the surface of the canvas… to express her attitude through her art, to have her sensitivity seen and felt.

  The following days were pretty much the same for Marion, Harry and Ty. Harry and Ty got wired at night and worked their asses off, slowing down as much as possible when the other guys got on their cases, and then taking a few sleeping pills and sleeping through the day. Just once being a habit with Harry he was accustomed to the routine by the second night so when he got home in the morning he made love to Marion for a couple of hours before taking a couple of her sleeping pills and crapping out. Now I know why you lose weight on these things, you ball the weight off. You know, its just the opposite for some men. Yeah? Thats right. It makes them completely impotent and in some cases indifferent. Tougha lucka joe. That aint my problem. Comere, and Harry pulled her down on the bed and Marion giggled as he kissed her on the neck. What are you doing? Harry snapped his head back and
looked at her, If you dont know I cant be doin it right. They laughed and Harry kissed her on the neck, the shoulder and the breast and moistened his lips and kissed her stomach, I want to see if I can wear it out. Which one? How many ya got? and they both laughed and giggled and passed a loving morning until it was time to sleep the day away.

  At night, while Harry was at work, Marion sat on the couch with her sketch pad and pencils and charcoal. She crossed her legs under her and hugged herself and closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift into the future where she and Harry were together, always, and the coffee house was always full and a feature article had been written about it in the NEW YORKER and it became an in place and all the art critics came to sit and drink coffee and eat pastry and look at the paintings by the great artists of tomorrow that had been discovered by Marion; and artists and poets and musicians and writers sat around talking and discussing and from time to time Marion would display her paintings and all the other painters loved them and even the critics loved her work and praised its sensitivity and awareness, and when she was not at the coffee house she could see herself in her studio painting, the light from the paintings dazzling the eye, and then she would pick up her sketch pad and look around for something to sketch and nothing seemed to be exactly what she wanted to do and so she tried to set up a still life with objects from the kitchen or living room, but nothing seemed to excite or inspire her so she went back to her fantasies and enoyed the comfort and reassurance they gave her and they were more real than sitting on the couch looking at the pencils, the charcoal and the virgin sketch pad.

  Each day Sara checked the mailbox very carefully, but still no reply from the McDick Corp. But she stuck to the diet anyway, but it was becoming harder and harder even with eating a whole cup of lettuce. She spent the day with Ada and the ladies getting the sun and still they came and asked and she showed them her red hair but still nothing new happened. When the sun went behind the building some of the ladies went in the house, especially those with the reflectors, but Sara and a few others stayed outside enjoying the cool shade. Even then it was not easy to forget about the food and just enjoy the special attention she got as a soon to be contestant on a quiz show, her mind drifting to images of lox and bagels and delicious cheese danish that were so sharp she could smell them and actually taste them and the ladies voices drifted by as she smiled and licked her lips. But the nights were worse as she sat, alone, in her viewing chair, watching the television, with her back to the refrigerator hearing him murmuring to her, spasms of fear knotting her stomach and a heaviness squeezing her chest. It was bad enough him bugging her, but then the herring started too. A couple of yentas already. Never stop. All the time talk, talk. Her ears started to feel like they were under water. I feel good, so why dont you go haunt Maurrie the butcher. Bite his thumbs off. Youll do everybody a favor. — in sour cream with onions and spice, hmmmmmm — I dont hear you—with a hot bialy… or onion roll — I like Kaiser, thank you, and anyway Im not hungry— and that growling in your stomach keeps me awake — growling, schmowling, thats just my stomach thinking thin—and the lox is red like your hair with the cream cheese and bagel — who needs it? One more day and I/ll have a meat patty for lunch and you can drop dead, thank you very much, and Sara drank another glass of water—zophtic, zophtic — and put the glass in the sink and tossed her red head at the refrigerator, shook her tuchis in his face, and went to bed. She was getting up a couple of times a night now and was almost tempted to stop, or maybe cut down, on the water, but she kept thinking of all the pounds that were going down the drain and she continued to drink, drink, drink, water all day long, not too disturbed by the nocturnal visits to the bathroom. But now she was dreaming. Sometimes a couple of dreams in one night. Like seeing chickens flying through her room, but they were neatly plucked and roasted to a golden brown with little balls of kasha on their backs. And then that roast beef. It kept rolling down the hill threatening to crush her but somehow it just whirled by, just missing her by a few inches, dragging behind it a gravy boat filled with rich brown gravy, and bowls of mashed potatoes and chocolate covered cherries with cherry juice filling. A couple nights of dreaming and Sara decided enough already. She got the name of the doctor from her lady friend and made an appointment. I dont know from diet pills, but eggs and grapefruit I/ve had up to here thank you.

  Harry had a hollow, sinking feeling in his gut, which was reflected on his face, when Marion told him she was seeing the shrink for dinner and a concert. Why do you have to see him for krists sake. You can cut the son of a bitch loose. I dont want him mentioning to my parents that I have stopped therapy. I want that fifty dollars a week. Marion looked tenderly at Harry and spoke as gently as possible, with feeling and care. Sweetheart, I am not going to sleep with him— Harry shrugged and threw a hand up in the air, Yeah, youre just—I told him I have the curse so hes planning on going home after the concert. Harry tried, desperately, not to show his feelings, but he failed and his chin kept getting lower and lower and he started getting bugged with himself for not being able to stop himself from sulking. Whats that supposed to mean? Marion smiled, then started chuckling slightly hoping to snap Harry out of it, but Harry was unyielding. Suddenly Marion hugged him and squealed with absolute glee, O Harry, youre jealous. Harry halfheartedly tried to push her away, but stopped trying after a moment. Marion kissed him on the cheek and hugged him, Come on sweetheart, put your arms around me… come on… please??? please???? She lifted Harrys arms and placed them on her shoulders and he grudgingly left them there for a moment then did not resist as she pushed them down around her and snuggled into him. Eventually he exerted a little pressure and held her closer and Marion sighed and nestled her head into his chest then kissed him on the lips, the cheek, the ear, the neck and forced him to squirm and giggle, and continued until he was laughing and begging her to stop, Comeon, stop… stop, you crazy bitch or I/ll biteya on the chroat, and he started kissing her on the neck and tickling her and she joined him in laughing and they were both panting and begging the other one to stop until they eventually laughed themselves into submission and they stopped, Marion sitting on Harrys lap, both hanging loose like rag dolls, tears of laughter tickling their cheeks. They wiped their eyes and face and took a couple of deep breaths, breaking out in chuckles from time to time. Suppose he doesnt believe you about the curse? O Harry, tapping him on the nose, dont be so naive. What do you mean? I mean simply that I know how to handle the situation. He will accept whatever I tell him whether he believes me or not. He wouldnt think of forcing the issue. Hes not the type. Suppose he was the type? Then, my dear, I would not be going out with him. Harry sweetheart, I am not a fool. She chuckled, I may be crazy but Im not stupid. Yeah??? Harry looking at her with a dubious expression on his face, Why doesnt he take his wife to the concert? Shes probably at a meeting of the PTA, Marion shrugged, how should I know? He likes to be seen in fashionable places with a beautiful young woman. Hes a typical John. It makes him feel good. Yeah???? Well, personally I think anybody who sees a shrink ought to have his head examined. O Harry, thats dreadful, chuckling, giggling. Then why are you laughing? I dont know. Out of sympathy I guess. Anyway, I have to get ready to go. She got up and started for the bedroom, then turned around and came back to Harry, who had gotten up too, and put her arms around him and hugged him tightly and put her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and sighed… O Harry, Im so glad you were upset, not because it makes you feel bad sweetheart, but it makes me feel good to know that you care that much for me. Care for you? Now whos insulting who, eh? You think I was playing games when I told you I love you? No, no, sweetheart, I believe you. With all my heart I believe you. But I guess I like the way it looks on your face. Okay, okay, we/ll cool it. She smiled up at him for a few long moments, then kissed him on the lips and went to the bedroom to dress, I promise I/ll think of you the entire evening. Thats great. I/ll think of you too eating and drinking wine and listening to the music as Im working my ass off. Harry laughed, I guess
thats better than you working your ass off, and he continued laughing. O Harry, thats dreadful, and she chuckled and laughed with relief as she dressed for the evening.

  Marion met Arnold at the small bar of an intimate continental restaurant on the east side. He stood as she approached and extended a hand. She took his hand and his seat. How are you Marion? Fine Arnold, how are you? Well, thank you. The usual? Please. He ordered a Cinzano with a dash of bitters and a twist for her. You look exquisite, as usual. Thank you. She smiled and let him light her cigarette. Soon they were advised that their table was ready and the maitre d’ led them to the table and asked Monsieur and Madam how they were this evening and they smiled and nodded politely, as one does to a maitre d’, and told him they were fine. Marion relaxed into her chair and felt her body absorb the atmosphere. The thing she enjoyed about Arnold was his taste in restaurants. They were always small, intimate and chic, with exceptional food, something you very rarely find in America. The elegance of her surroundings had more to do with the glow she felt than the aperitif she sipped almost continuously. Im disappointed that you are indisposed. Well, theres nothing much I can do about that, she smiled, Freud notwithstanding. Is Anita out of town, or something? Why do you ask? No reason, really, just curious. He looked at her for a moment before answering, No, but she will be involved in something most of the night. Newsmen were there yesterday taking her picture, along with a few other “members” in the garden. Can I ask you a personal question Arnold? Certainly. How did you and Anita ever manage to have any children— She held up her hand, Im not trying to be facetious, honestly, its just that the two of you always seem to be in different places at the same time. Arnold sat a little straighter, Well, actually theres no mystery about that. I didn’t mean about the children, Marion was smiling, I do know about that. Why do you ask these questions, its very curious. What, exactly, do you mean by all this? Marion shrugged and finished chewing her escargot, Nothing other than what I said. Im curious. Marion sipped a bit of the white bordeaux he had ordered as he scrutinized her, O, this is marvelous. She took another sip then went back to her escargot. Arnold was still frowning slightly, When people reach a particular point in life, when they have attained a certain degree of success… a substantial degree, their interests broaden and their perspective widens. I imagine with Anita its an inner need for fulfillment, her civic work, a need to find her own identity. But what really interests me is why you should be asking a question like that. Its so obvious that you are trying to vicariously fulfill the lack in your life by playing a substitute role, substituting yourself in the role as my wife. O Arnold, dont be gauche. She finished her wine and immediately the waiter was there to refill her glass. Arnold nodded politely at him. And anyway, Im not in the least worried about my identity, she smiled at him and patted his hand, really Im not. She had finished her escargot and dabbed at the garlic butter with a piece of roll. Ive started painting again and I feel marvelous. You have? She had finished and the waiter took the empty plates and she sat back and smiled at Arnold. Thats right. I havent actually finished any canvases yet, but Im working. I can feel the paintings just welling up within me, begging to come out. Well… I would very much like to see your work. It would give me, I feel, a tremendous insight into your subconscious. I should think that you would be familiar enough with that by now. Well, its not exactly a stranger to me, but this would be approaching it from a different angle, a different point of view so to speak. You see here most of your defenses would not only be down, but the symbols would be far more obvious than in the dreams and it would give wonderful corroboration to the conclusions formed from analyzing the free association. Well, maybe sometime I/ll invite you up to see my etchings, and Marion chuckled, but not too loudly, as she forked a little meat off her frogs legs. After the concert they stopped in for a nightcap. Arnold didnt drink his scotch with any particular interest, but Marion loved to roll the chartreuse around in her mouth before swallowing it. That was a marvelous concert, just marvelous, and she had a reflective look on her face as if she were still hearing the music, especially the Mahler. Whenever I hear his Resurrection Symphony, more than any other, I start to understand why they say he took romanticism to its ultimate in music. I feel all welled up inside like Ive just run up a flower covered hillside and the breeze is blowing my hair in the wind and Im whirling around and the sunlight is glancing off the wings of birds and the leaves of trees, and Marion closed her eyes and sighed. I agree, it was a definitive performance. I think he really got to the heart of Mahlers ambivalence and understands how he unconsciously projected it into his music. Marion frowned, What ambivalence? The basic conflicts in his life. His compromise with his Jewish heritage and his willingness to renounce it to further his career. His constant conflict as a conductor when he wanted to compose, but needing the money to live. Its obvious the manner in which he changes keys that he was unaware that these conflicts were responsible for those changes. Just as they were responsible for his changes in attitude toward God. But that was over by the time he wrote the second symphony. Ostensibly, but I have listened very carefully to his music, and analyzed it thoroughly, and there is no doubt that though he may have said certain things, and perhaps even believed them in his conscious mind, that his subconscious had not as yet resolved the conflict. Arnold breathed deeply, Mahlers music is extremely interesting from an analytical point of view. I find it very stimulating. Marion smiled and put her empty glass on the table, Well, I still love his music. It sort of makes me happy to be sad. She sighed and smiled again, I really have to be going Arnold. I have been very busy lately and am tired. Fine. He drove her home and before she got out of the car he smilingly smirked, I/ll give you a call in a couple of weeks. That should be about right. He kissed her and she kissed him back and left the car. He waited until she was in the building before driving away. Marion lit a joint as soon as she got in the apartment, then changed her clothes, then put Mahlers Kindertotenlieder on the phonograph and sat on the couch with her sketch pad and pencils. She continually adjusted the pad on her lap, taking another poke of the joint until it was half gone then put it out, and tried to work up some sort of image to transfer onto the sketch pad. That should be easy enough to do. Mahler… good pot… it should all come together. She realized she was pushing too hard and so she just sat back and relaxed and waited for it to come. Still it was a blank. If only she had a model. Thats what was needed. A model. She could feel the drawing begging to come out, her need to express herself giving her energy, but she couldnt seem to unloose the gates and organize that energy. She jumped up and grabbed a couple of womens magazines from the table and started rapidly thumbing through them marking all the ads and articles with pictures of babies and mothers and, finding a few that suited her, tore them out and used them as models and started sketching, at first tentatively, then with increasing speed and assurance. The mothers and babies were placed in various positions and juxtapositions, with varying expressions, the expressions becoming more and more melancholy. She very rapidly did a sketch of a child in a contorted position, a look of silent pain on its face, and the mothers expression quickly began to look like the man in the Edvard Munch woodcut and Marion looked at the sketch very carefully from every angle and felt excited and inspired by it as she felt a deep identification with both figures. She looked very carefully at the babys pained face then drew another baby next to it, about a year older, yet the expression remained the same. She continued to draw the child, in each drawing the child was a year older and as she progressed the drawings became more skillful, more lifelike, more filled with emotion and she began to sketch little birthday candles under the drawings showing the age of the child and then the features became more distinct and the hair long and black, the same silent pain on her face, and then she started to blossom and become a woman and she was slowly transformed from a pretty child to a lovely girl and then a beautiful woman but always that haunted and pained expression on her face, and then she stopped drawing and looked at the beautif
ul woman on the pad looking back at her, a woman of long flowing lines and curves, classic features, dark shining hair, her inner pain reflected in her dark and penetrating eyes, and then she left a wide space and sketched another figure, a figure of uncertain age, but certainly much older than the last figure, but the lines and curves the same, the body the same, the features of the face the same until it suddenly turned into the anguished expression of the Munch figure. Marion stared at the figure and suddenly became aware of the silence. She got up and played the record again, then sat back on the couch and looked at her drawings. They excited her.