Nexus

by Henry Miller

  But to what realm was I being escorted? And for what end?

  Slowly I became aware that I was bleeding, that indeed I was a mass of wounds, from head to foot. It was then that, seized with fright, I swooned away. When at last I opened my eyes I saw to my astonishment that the Being who had accompanied me was tenderly bathing my wounds, anointing my body with oil. Was I at the point of death? Was it the Angel of Mercy whose figure was solicitously bent over me? Or had I already crossed the Great Divide?

  Imploringly I gazed into the eyes of my Comforter. The ineffable look of compassion which illumined her features reassured me. I was no longer concerned to know whether I was still of this world or not. A feeling of peace invaded my being, and again I closed my eyes. Slowly and steadily a new vigor poured into my limbs; except for a strange feeling of emptiness in the region of the heart I felt completely restored.

  It was after I had opened my eyes and found that I was alone, though not deserted, not abandoned, that instinctively I raised a hand and placed it over my heart. To my horror there was a deep hole where the heart should have been. A hole from which no blood flowed. Then I am dead, I murmured. Yet I believed it not.

  At this strange moment, dead but not dead, the doors of memory swung open and down through the corridors of time I beheld that which no man should be permitted to see until he is ready to give up the ghost: I saw in every phase and moment of his pitiful weakness the utter wretch I had been, the blackguard, nothing less, who had striven so vainly and ignominiously to protect his miserable little heart. I saw that it never had been broken, as I imagined, but that, paralyzed by fear, it had shrunk almost to nothingness. I saw that the grievous wounds which had brought me low had all been received in a senseless effort to prevent this shriveled heart from breaking. The heart itself had never been touched; it had dwindled from disuse.

  It was gone now, this heart, taken from me, no doubt, by the Angel of Mercy. I had been healed and restored so that I might live on in death as I had never lived in life. Vulnerable no longer, what need was there for a heart?

  Lying there prone, with all my strength and vigor returned, the enormity of my fate smote me like a rock. The sense of the utter emptiness of existence overwhelmed me. I had achieved invulnerability, it was mine forever, but life—if this was life—had lost all meaning. My lips moved as if in prayer but the feeling to express anguish failed me. Heartless, I had lost the power to communicate, even with my Creator.

  Now, once again, the Angel appeared before me. In her hands, cupped like a chalice, she held the poor, shrunken Semblance of a heart which was mine. Bestowing upon me a look of the utmost compassion, she blew upon this dead looking ember until it swelled and filled with blood, until it palpitated between her fingers like a live, human heart.

  Restoring it to its place, her lips moved as if pronouncing the benediction, but no sound issued forth. My transgressions had been forgiven; I was free to sin again, free to burn with the flame of the spirit. But in that moment I knew, and would never, never more forget, that it is the heart which rules, the heart which binds and protects. Nor would it ever die, this heart, for its keeping was in greater hands.

  What joy now possessed me! What complete and absolute trust!

  Rising to my feet, a new being entire, I put forth my arms to embrace the world. Nothing had changed; it was the world I had always known. But I saw it now with other eyes. I no longer sought to escape it, to shun its ills, or alter it in any least way. I was fully of it and one with it. I had come through the valley of the shadow of death; I was no longer ashamed to be human, all-too-human.

  I had found my place. I belonged. My place was in the world, in the midst of death and corruption. For companions I had the sun, the moon, the stars. My heart, cleansed of its inquiries, had lost all fear; it ached now to offer itself to the first comer. Indeed, I had the impression that I was all heart, a heart which could never be broken, nor even wounded, since it was forever inseparable from that which had given it birth.

  And so, as I walked forward and onward into the thick of the world, there where full havoc had been wreaked and panic alone reigned, I cried out with all the fervor which my soul possessed—Take heart, O brothers and sisters! Take heart!

  12.

  On arriving at the office Monday morning I found a cablegram lying on my desk. In black and white it said that her boat was arriving Thursday, I should meet her at the pier.

  I said nothing to Tony, he’d only view it as a calamity. I kept repeating the message to myself over and over; it seemed almost unbelievable.

  It took hours for me to collect myself. As I was leaving the office that evening I looked at the message once again to be certain I had not misread it. No, she was arriving Thursday, no mistake about it. Yes, this coming Thursday, not the next Thursday nor the last. This Thursday. It was incredible.

  The first thing to do was to find a place to live. A cosy little room somewhere, and not too expensive. It meant I would have to borrow again. From whom? Certainly not from Tony.

  The folks weren’t exactly overjoyed to hear the news. My mother’s sole comment was—I hope you won’t give up your job now that she’s returning.

  Thursday came and I was at the pier, an hour ahead of time. It was one of the fast German liners she had taken. The boat arrived, a little late, the passengers disembarked, the luggage melted from sight, but no sign of Mona or Stasia. Panicky, I rushed to the office where the passenger list was held. Her name was not on the list, nor Stasia’s either.

  I returned to the little room I had rented, my heart heavy as lead. Surely she could have sent me a message. It was cruel, utterly cruel, of her.

  Next morning, shortly after arriving at the office, I received a phone call from the telegraph office. They had a cablegram, for me. Read it! I yelled. (The dopes, what were they waiting for?)

  Message: Arriving Saturday on Berengaria. Love.

  This time it was the real Me Coy. I watched her coming down the gang-plank. Her, her. And more ravishing than ever. In addition to a small tin trunk she had a valise and a hat bag crammed with stuff. But where was Stasia?

  Stasia was still in Paris. Couldn’t say when she’d return.

  Wonderful! thought I to myself. No need to make further inquiries.

  In the taxi, when I told her about the room I had taken, she seemed delighted. We’ll find a better place later, she remarked. (Christ, no! said I to myself. Why a better place?)

  There were a thousand questions I was dying to put her but I checked myself. I didn’t even ask why she had changed boats. What did it matter what had happened yesterday, a month ago, five years ago? She was back—that was enough.

  There was no need to ask questions—she was bursting to tell me things. I had to beg her to slow down, not let it all out at once. Save some for later, I said.

  While she was rummaging through the trunk—she had brought back all manner of gifts, including paintings, carvings, art albums—I couldn’t resist making love to her. We went at it on the floor amidst the papers, books, paintings, clothing, shoes and what not. But even this interruption couldn’t check the flow of talk. There was so much to tell, so many names to reel off. It sounded to my ears like a mad jumble.

  Tell me one thing, said I, stopping her abruptly. Are you sure 7 would like it over there?

  Her face took on an absolutely ecstatic expression. Like it? Val, it’s what you’ve dreamed of all your life. You belong there. Even more than I. It has everything you are searching for and never will find here. Everything.

  She launched into it again—the streets, how they looked, the crooked winding ones, the alleys, the impasses, the charming little places, the great wide avenues, such as those radiating from the Etoile; then the markets, the butcher shops, the book stalls, the bridges, the bicycle cops, the cafes, the cabarets, the public gardens, the fountains, even the urinals. On and on, like a Cook’s tour. All I could do was roll my eyes, shake my head, clap my hands. If it’s only half as good, thought
I to myself, it will be marvelous.

  There was one sour note: the French women. They were decidedly not beautiful, she wanted me to know. Attractive, yes. But not beauties, like our American women. The men, on the other hand, were interesting and alive, though hard to get rid of. She thought I would like the men, though she hoped I wouldn’t acquire their habits, where women were concerned. They had a medieval conception of woman, she thought. A man had the right to beat a woman up in public. It’s horrible to see, she exclaimed. No one dares to interfere. Even the cops look the other way.

  I took this with a grain of salt, the customary one. A woman’s view. As for the American beauty business, America could keep her beauties. They had never had any attraction for me.

  We’ve got to go back, she said, forgetting that we had not gone there together. It’s the only life for you, Val. You’ll write there, I promise you. Even if we starve. No one seems to have money there. Yet they get by—how, I can’t say. Anyway, being broke there is not the same as being broke here. Here it’s ugly. There it’s … well, romantic, I guess you’d say. But we’re not going to be broke when we go back. We’ve got to work hard now, save our money, so that we can have at least two or three years of it when we do go.

  It was good to hear her talk so earnestly about work. The next day, Sunday, we spent walking, talking. Nothing but plans for the future. To economize, she decided to look for a place where we could cook. Something more homelike than the hall bedroom I had rented. A place where you can work, was how she put it.

  The pattern was all too familiar. Let her do as she likes, I thought. She will anyway.

  It must be terribly boring, that job, she remarked.

  It’s not too bad. I knew what the next line would be.

  You’re not going to keep it forever, I hope?

  No, dear. Soon I’ll get down to writing again.

  Over there, she said, people seem to manage better than here. And on much less. If a man is a painter he paints; if he’s a writer he writes. No putting things off until all’s rosy. She paused, thinking no doubt that I would show skepticism. I know, Val, she continued, with a change of voice, I know that you hate to see me do the things I do in order to make ends meet. I don’t like it myself. But you can’t work and write, that’s clear. If some one has to make a sacrifice, let it be me. Frankly, it’s no sacrifice, what I do. All I live for is to see you do what you want to do. You should trust me, trust me to do what’s best for you. Once we get to Europe things will work out differently. You’ll blossom there, I know it. This is such a meagre, paltry life we lead here. Do you realize, Val, that you’ve hardly got a friend any more whom you care to see? Doesn’t that tell you something? There you have only to take a seat in a cafe and you make friends instantly. Besides, they talk the things you like to talk. Ulric’s the only friend you ever talk to that way. With the rest you’re just a buffoon. Now that’s true, isn’t it?

  I had to admit it was only too true. Talking this way, heart to heart, made me feel that perhaps she did know better than I what was good for me and what wasn’t. Never was I more eager to find a happy solution to our problems. Especially the problem of working in harness. The problem of seeing eye to eye.

  She had returned with just a few cents in her purse. It was the lack of money which had to do with the last minute change of boats, so she said. There was more to it than this, of course, and she did make further explanations, elaborate ones, but it was all so hurried and jumbled that I couldn’t keep up with it. What did surprise me was that in no time at all she had found new quarters for us to move to—on one of the most beautiful streets in all Brooklyn. She had found exactly the right place, had paid a month’s rent in advance, rented me a typewriter, filled the larder, and God knows what all. I was curious to know how she came by the dough.

  Don’t ask me, she said. There’ll be more when we need it.

  I thought of my lame efforts to scrounge a few measly dollars. And of the debt I still owed Tony.

  You know, she said, every one’s so happy to see me back they can’t refuse me anything.

  Every one. I translated that to mean some one.

  I knew the next thing would be—Do quit that horrid job!

  Tony knew it too. I know you won’t be staying with us much longer, he said one day. In a way I envy you. When you do leave see that we don’t lose track of one another. I’ll miss you, you bastard.

  I tried to tell him how much I had appreciated all he had done for me, but he brushed it off. You’d do the same, he said, if you were in my place. Seriously, though, are you going to settle down and write now? I hope so. We can get grave-diggers any day, but not a writer. Eh what?

  Hardly a week elapsed before I said good-bye to Tony. It was the last I ever saw of him. I did pay him off, eventually, but in driblets. Others to whom I was indebted only got theirs fifteen or twenty years later. A few had died before I got round to them. Such is life—the university of life, as Gorky called it.

  The new quarters were divine. Rear half of a second floor in an old brown-stone house. Every convenience, including soft rugs, thick woolen blankets, refrigerator, bath and shower, huge pantry, electric stove, and so on. As for the landlady, she was absolutely taken with us. A Jewess with liberal ideas and passionately fond of art. To have a writer and an actress—Mona had given that as her profession—was a double triumph for her. Up until her husband’s sudden death she had been a school teacher—with leanings toward authorship. The insurance she had collected on her husband’s death had enabled her to give up teaching. She hoped that soon she would get started with her writing. Maybe I could give her some valuable hints—when I had time, that is.

  From every angle the situation was ducky. How long would it last? That was ever the question in my mind. More than anything it did me good to see Mona arrive each afternoon with her shopping bag full. So good to see her change, don an apron, cook the dinner. The picture of a happily wedded wife. And while the meal was cooking a new phonograph record to listen to—always something exotic, something I could never afford to buy myself. After dinner an excellent liqueur, with coffee. Now and then a movie to round it off. If not, a walk through the aristocratic neighborhood surrounding us. Indian Summer, in every sense of the word.

  And so, when in a burst of confidence one day she informed me that there was a rich old geezer who had taken a fancy to her, who believed in her—as a writer!—I listened patiently and without the least show of disturbance or irritation.

  The reason for this burst of confidence was soon revealed. If she could prove to this admirer—wonderful how she could vary the substantive!—that she could write a book, a novel, for example, he would see to it that it got published. What’s more, he offered to pay a rather handsome weekly stipend while the writing of it was in process. He expected, of course, to be shown a few pages a week. Only fair, what?

  And that’s not all, Val. But the rest I’ll tell you later, when you’ve gotten on with the book. It’s hard not to tell you, believe rue, but you must trust me. What have you to say?

  I was too surprised to know what to think.

  Can you do it?

  Will you do it?

  I can try. But—.

  But what, Val?

  Wouldn’t he be able to tell straight off that it’s a man’s writing and not a woman’s?

  No, Val, he wouldn’t I came the prompt reply.

  How do you know? How can you be so sure?

  Because I’ve already put him to the test. He’s read some of your work—I passed it off as mine, of course—and he never suspected a thing.

  So-o-o. Hmmm. You don’t miss a trick, do you?

  If you’d like to know, he was extremely interested. Said there was no doubt I had talent. He was going to show the pages to a publisher friend of his. Does that satisfy you?

  But a novel … do you honestly think I can write a novel?

  Why not? You can do anything you put your mind to. It doesn’t have to be a conventional novel.
All he’s concerned about is to discover if I have stick-to-it-iveness. He says I’m erratic, unstable, capricious.

  By the way, I put in, does he know where we … I mean you…. live?

  Of course not! Do you think I’m crazy? I told him I’m living with my mother and that she’s an invalid.

  What does he do for a living?

  He’s in the fur business, I think. As she was giving me this answer I was thinking how interesting it would be to know how she became acquainted with him and even more, how she had managed to progress so far in such a short time. But to such queries I would only receive the moon is made of green cheese replies.

  He also plays the stock market, she added. He probably has a number of irons in the fire.

  So he thinks you’re a single woman living with an invalid mother?

  I told him I had been married and divorced. I gave him my stage name.

  Sounds like you’ve got it all sewed up. Well, at least you won’t have to be running around nights, will you?

  To which she replied: He’s like you, he hates the Village and all that bohemian nonsense. Seriously, Val, he’s a person of some culture. He’s passionate about music, for one thing. He once played the violin, I believe.

  Yeah? And what do you call him, this old geezer?

  Pop.

  Pop?

  Yes, just Pop.

  How old is he … about?

  Oh, fiftyish, I suppose.

  That’s not so very old, is it?

  No-o-o. But he’s settled in his ways. He seems older.

  Well, I said, by way of closing the subject, it’s all highly interesting. Who knows, maybe it will lead to something. Let’s go for a walk, what do you say?

  Certainly, she said. Anything you like.

  Anything you like. That was an expression I hadn’t heard from her lips in many a moon. Had the trip to Europe worked a magical change? Or was there something cooking that she wasn’t ready to tell about just yet? I wasn’t eager to cultivate doubts. But there was the past with all its tell tale scars. This proposition of Pop’s now—it all seemed above board, genuine. And obviously entered into for my sake, not hers. What if it did give her a thrill to be taken for a writer instead of an actress? She was doing it to get me started. It was her way of solving my problem.