Nexus

by Henry Miller

  To needle him, I said: And what about Redcap Wilson? (He had worked for me once as a night messenger. A deaf-mute, if I remember right.)

  He brushed him off with—A third-rater, a punk.

  Like Battling Nelson, I said.

  Mrs. Essen intervened at this point to suggest that we withdraw to the other room, the parlor. You can talk more comfortably there, she said.

  With this Sid Essen slammed his fist down hard. Why move? he shouted. Aren’t we doing all right here? You want us to change the conversation, that’s what. He reached for the Kummel. Here, let’s have a little more, everybody. It’s good, what?

  Mrs. Essen and her daughter rose to clear the table. They did it silently and efficiently, as my mother and sister would have, leaving only the bottles and glasses on the table.

  Reb nudged me to confide in what he thought was a whisper—Soon as she sees me enjoying myself she clamps down on me. That’s women for you.

  Come on, Dad, said the boy, let’s get the fiddles out.

  Get ‘em out, who’s stopping you? shouted Reb. But don’t play off key, it drives me nuts.

  We adjourned to the parlor, where we spread ourselves about on sofas and easy chairs. I didn’t care what they played or how. I was a bit swacked myself from all the cheap wine and the liqueurs.

  While the musicians tuned up fruit cake was passed around, then walnuts and shelled pecans.

  It was a duet from Haydn which they had chosen as a starter. With the opening bar they were off base. But they stuck to their guns, hoping, I suppose, that eventually they would get in step. It was horripilating, the way they hacked and sawed away. Along toward the middle the old man broke down. Damn it! he yelled, flinging his fiddle on to a chair, it sounds god-awful. We’re not in form, I guess. As for you, he turned on his son, you’d better practise some more before you play for anybody.

  He looked around as if searching for the bottle, but catching a grim look from his wife he slunk into an easy chair. He mumbled apologetically that he was getting rusty. Nobody said anything. He yawned loudly. Why not a game of chess? he said wearily.

  Mrs. Essen spoke up. Please, not to-night!

  He dragged himself to his feet, It’s stuffy in here, he said. I’m taking a walk. Don’t run away! I’ll be back soon.

  When he had gone Mrs. Essen tried to account for his unseemly conduct. He’s lost interest in everything; he’s alone too much. She spoke almost as if he were already deceased.

  Said the son: He ought to take a vacation.

  Yes, said the daughter, we’re trying to get him to visit Palestine.

  Why not send him to Paris? said Mona. That would liven him up.

  The boy began to laugh hysterically.

  What’s the matter? I asked.

  He laughed even harder. Then he said: If he ever got to Paris we’d never see him again.

  Now, now! said the mother.

  You know Dad, he’d go plumb crazy, what with all the girls, the cafe’s, the…

  What a way to talk! said Mrs. Essen.

  You don’t know him, the boy retorted. I do. He wants to live. So do I.

  Why not send the two of them abroad? said Mona. The father would look after the son and the son after the father.

  At this point the doorbell rang. It was a neighbor who had heard that we were visiting the Essens and had come to make our acquaintance.

  This is Mr. Elfenbein, said Mrs. Essen. She didn’t seem too delighted to see him.

  With elbows bent and hands clasped Mr. Elfenbein came forward to greet us. His face was radiant, the perspiration was dripping from his brow.

  What a privilege! he exclaimed, making a little bow, then clasping our hands and wringing them vigorously. I have heard so much about you, I hope you will pardon the invasion. Do you speak Yiddish perhaps—or Russe? He hunched his shoulders and moved his head from side to side, the eyes following like compass needles. He fixed me with a grin. Mrs. Skolsky tells me you are fond of Cantor Sirota…

  I felt like a bird released from its cage. I went up to Mr. Elfenbein and gave him a good hug.

  From Minsk or Pinsk? I said.

  From the land of the Moabites, he replied.

  He gave me a beamish look and stroked his beard. The boy put a glass of Kummel in his hand. There was a stray lock of hair on the crown of Mr. Elfenbein’s baldish head; it stood up like a corkscrew. He drained the glass of Kummel and accepted a piece of fruit cake. Again he clasped his hands over his breast.

  Such a pleasure, he said, to make the acquaintance of an intelligent Goy. A Goy who writes books and talks to the birds. Who reads the Russians and observes Yom Kippur. And has the sense to marry a girl from Bukovina … a Tzigane, no less. And an actress! Where is that loafer, Sid? Is he drunk again? He looked around like a wise old owl about to hoot. Non, if a man studies all his life and then discovers that he is an idiot, is he right? The answer is Yes and No. We say in our village that a man must cultivate his own nonsense, not somebody else’s. And in the Cabala it says … But we mustn’t split hairs right away. From Minsk came the mink coats and from Pinsk nothing but misery. A Jew from the Corridor is a Jew whom the devil never touches. Moishe Echt was such a Jew. My cousin, in other words. Always in trouble with the rabbi. When winter came he locked himself in the granary. He was a harness maker…

  He stopped abruptly and gave me a Satanic smile, In the Book of Job, I began. I Make it Revelations, he said. It’s more ectoplasmic.

  Mona began to giggle. Mrs. Essen discreetly withdrew. Only the boy remained. He was making signs behind Mr. Elfenbein’s back, as if ringing a telephone attached to his temple.

  When you begin a new opus, Mr. Elfenbein was saying, in what language do you pray first?

  In the language of our fathers, I replied instanter. Abraham, Isaac, Ezekiel, Nehemiah…

  And David and Solomon, and Ruth and Esther, he chimed in.

  The boy now refilled Mr. Elfenbein’s glass and again he drained it in one gulp.

  A fine young gangster he will grow to be, said Mr. Elfenbein, smacking his lips. Already he knows nothing from nothing. A malamed he should be—if he had his wits. Do you remember in Tried and Punished … ?

  You mean Crime and Punishment, said young Essen.

  In Russian it is The Crime and its Punishment. Now take a back seat and don’t make faces behind my back. I know I’m meshuggah, but this gentleman doesn’t. Let him find out for himself. Isn’t that so, Mr. Gentleman? He made a mock bow.

  When a Jew turns from his religion, he went on, thinking of Mrs. Essen, no doubt, it’s like fat turning to water. Better to become a Christian than one of these milk and water—. He cut himself short, mindful of the proprieties. A Christian is a Jew with a crucifix in his hand. He can’t forget that we killed him, Jesus, who was a Jew like any other Jew, only more fanatical. To read Tolstoy you don’t have to be a Christian; a Jew understands him just as well. What was good about Tolstoy was that he finally got the courage to run away from his wife … and to give his money away. The lunatic is blessed; he doesn’t care about money. Christians are only make-believe lunatics; they carry life insurance as well as beads and prayer books. A Jew doesn’t walk about with the Psalms; he knows them by heart. Even when he’s selling shoe laces he’s humming a verse to himself. When the Gentile sings a hymn it sounds like he’s making war. Onward Christian Soldiers! How does it go—? Marching as to war. Why as to? They’re always making war—with a sabre in one hand and a crucifix in the other.

  Mona now rose to draw closer. Mr. Elfenbein extended his hands, as if to a dancing partner. He sized her up from head to toe, like an auctioneer. Then he said: And what did you play in last, my rose of Sharon?

  The Green Cockatoo, she replied (Tic-tac-toe.)

  And before that?

  The Goat Song, Liliom … Saint Joan.

  Stop! He put up his hand. The Dybbuk is better suited to your temperament. More gynecological. Now what was that play of Sudermann’s? No matter. Ah yes … Magda. You�
��re a Magda, not a Monna Vanna. I ask you, how would I look in The God of Vengeance? Am I a Scbildkraut or a Ben Ami? Give me Siberia to play, not The servant in the House! He chucked her under the chin. You remind me a little of Elissa Landi. Yes, with a touch of Nazimova perhaps. If you had more weight, you could be another Modjeska. Hedda Gabler, that’s for you. My favorite is The Wild Duck. After that The Playboy of the Western World. But not in Yiddish, God forbid!

  The theatre was his pet subject evidently. He had been, an actor years ago, first in Rummeldumvitza or some hole like that, then at the Thalia on the Bowery. It was there he met Ben Ami. And somewhere else Blanche Yurka. He had also known Vesta Tilly, odd thing. And David Warfield. He thought Androcles and the Lion was a gem, but didn’t care much for Shaw’s other plays. He was very fond of Ben Jonson and Marlowe, and of Hasenclever and von Hoffmansthal.

  Beautiful women rarely make good actresses, he was saying. There should always be a defect of some kind—a longish nose or the eyes a little mis-focused. The best is to have an unusual voice. People always remember the voice. Pauline Lord’s, for example. He turned to Mona. You have a good voice too. It has brown sugar in it and cloves and nutmeg. The worst is the American voice—no soul in it. Jacob Ben Ami had a marvelous voice … like good soup … never turned rancid. But he dragged it around like a tortoise. A woman should cultivate the voice above everything. She should also think more, about what the play means … not about her exquisite postillion … I mean posterior. Jewish actresses have too much flesh usually; when they walk across the stage they shake like jelly. But they have sorrow in their voices.’.. Sorge. They don’t have to imagine that a devil is pulling a breast off with hot pincers. Yes, sin and sorrow are the best ingredients. And a bit of phantasmus. Like in Webster or Marlowe. A shoemaker who talks to the Devil every time he goes to the water closet. Or falls in love with a beanstalk, as in Moldavia. The Irish plays are full of lunatics and drunkards, and the nonsense they talk is holy nonsense. The Irish are poets always, especially when they know nothing. They have been tortured too, maybe not as much as the Jews, but enough. No one likes to eat potatoes three times a day or use a pitchfork for a toothpick. Great actors, the Irish. Born chimpanzees. The British are too refined, too mentalized. A masculine race, but castrated…

  A commotion was going on at the door. It was Sid Essen returning from his walk with a couple of mangy looking cats he had rescued. His wife was trying to shoo them out.

  Elfenbein! he shouted, waving his cap. Greetings! How did you get here?

  How should I get here? By my two feet, no? He took a step forward. Let me smell your breath! Go way, go way! When have you seen me drunk? When you are too happy—or not so happy. A great pal, Elfenbein, said Reb, slinging an arm around his shoulder affectionately. The Yiddish King Lear, that’s what he is … What’s the matter, the glasses are empty.

  Like your mind, said Elfenbein. Drink of the spirit. Like Moses. From the rock gushes water, from the bottle only foolishness. Shame on you, son of Zweifel, to be so thirsty.

  The conversation became scattered. Mrs. Essen had got rid of the cats, cleaned up the mess they had made in the hallway, and was once again smoothing her hair back from her brow. A lady, every inch of her. No rancor, no recriminations. Gelid, in that super-refined, ethical-culturish way. She took a seat by the window, hoping no doubt that the conversation would take a more rational turn. She was fond of Mr. Elfenbein, but he distressed her with his Old World talk, his crazy grimaces, his stale jokes.

  The Yiddish King Lear was now beyond all bridling. He had launched into a lengthy monologue on the Zend Avestas, with occasional sideswipes at the Book of Etiquette, Jewish presumably, though from the references he made to it it might as well have been Chinese. He had just finished saying that, according to Zoroaster, man had been chosen to continue the work of creation. Then he added: Man is nothing unless he is a collaborator.

  God is not kept alive by prayers and injections. The Jew has forgotten all this—and the Gentile is a spiritual cripple.

  A confused discussion followed these statements, much to Elfenbein’s amusement. In the midst of it he began singing at the top of his lungs—Rumeinie, Rumeinie, Rumeinie … a mameligele … a pastramele … a karnatsele … un a gleizele wine, Aha!

  You see, he said, when the hubbub had subsided, even in a liberal household it’s dangerous to introduce ideas. Time was when such talk was music to one’s ears. The Rabbi would take a hair and with a knife like a razor he would split it into a thousand hairs. Nobody had to agree with him; it was an exercise. It sharpened the mind and made us forget the terror. If the music played you needed no partner; you danced with Zov, Toft, Giml. Now when we argue we put bandages over our eyes. We go to see Tomashevsky and we weep like pigs. We don’t know any more who is Pechorin or Aksakov. If on the stage a Jew visits a bordel—perhaps he lost his way!—every one blushes for the author. But a good Jew can sit in the slaughter-house and think only of Jehovah. Once in Bucuresti I saw a holy man finish a bottle of vodka all by himself, and then he talked for three hours without stopping. He talked of Satan. He made him so repulsive that I could smell him. When I left the cafe everything looked Satanic to me. I had to go to a public house, excuse me, to get rid of the sulphur. It glowed like a furnace in there; the women looked like pink angels. Even the Madame, who was really a vulture. Such a time I had that night! All because the Tzaddik had taken too much vodka.

  Yes, it’s good to sin once in a while, but not to make a pig of yourself. Sin with eyes open. Drown yourself in the pleasures of the flesh, but hang on by a hair. The Bible is full of patriarchs who indulged the flesh but never lost sight of the one God. Our forefathers were men of spirit, but they had meat on their bones. One could take a concubine and still have respect for one’s wife. After all, it was at the door of the temple that the harlot learned her trade. Yes, sin was real then, and Satan too. Now we have ethics, and our children become garment manufacturers, gangsters, concert performers. Soon they will be making trapeze artists of them and hockey players…

  Yes, said Reb from the depths of his arm-chair, now we are less than nothing. Once we had pride…

  Elfenbein cut in. Now we have the Jew who talks like the Gentile, who says nothing matters but success. The Jew who sends his boy to a military academy so that he can learn how to kill his fellow Jew. The daughter he sends to Hollywood, to make a name for herself, as a Hungarian or Roumanian by showing her nakedness. Instead of great rabbis we have heavy-weight prize-fighters. We even have homosexuals now, weh is mir. Soon we will have Jewish Cossacks.

  Like a refrain, Reb sighed: The God of Abraham is no more.

  Let them show their nakedness, said Elfenbein, but not pretend that they are heathen. Let them remember their fathers who were peddlers and scholars and who fell like chaff under the heels of the hooligans.

  On and on he went, leaping from subject to subject like a chamois in thin air. Names like Mordecai and Ahasuerus dropped from his lips, together with Lady Windermere’s Fan and Sodom and Gomorrah. In one breath he expatiated on The Shoemaker’s Holiday and the lost tribes of Israel. And always, like a summer complaint, he came back to the sickness of the Gentiles, which he likened unto eine Arschkrankheit. Egypt all over again, but without grandeur, without miracles. And this sickness was now in the brain. Maggots and poppy seed. Even the Jews were looking forward to the day of resurrection. For them, he said, it would be like war without dum dum bullets.

  He was swept along by his own words now. And drinking only Seltzer water. The word bliss, which he had let fall, seemed to cause an explosion in his head. What was bliss? A long sleep in the Fallopian tubes. Or—Huns Without Schrecklichkeit. The Danube always blue, as in a Strauss waltz. Yes, he admitted, in the Pentateuch there was much nonsense written, but it had a logic. The Book of Numbers was not all horse radish. It had teleological excitement. As for circumcision, one might just as well talk about chopped spinach, for all the importance it had. The synagogues smelled of chemic
als and roach powder. The Amalekites were the spiritual cockroaches of their time, like the Anabaptists of today. No wonder, he exclaimed, giving us a frightening wink, that everything is in a state of ‘chassos’. How true were the words of the Tzaddik who said: ‘Apart from Him there is nothing that is really clear.’

  Oof! He was getting winded, but there was more to come. He made a phosphorescent leap now from the depths of his trampoline. There were a few great souls whose names he had to mention: they belonged to another order. Barbusse, Tagore, Romain Rolland, Peguy, for example. The friends of humanity. Heroic souls, all of them. Even America was capable of producing a humanitarian soul, witness Eugene V. Debs. There are mice, he said, who wear the uniforms of field marshals and gods who move in our midst like beggars. The Bible swarmed with moral and spiritual giants. Who could compare to King David? Who was so magnificent, yet wise, as Solomon? The lion of Judah was still alive and snorting. No anaesthetic could put this lion permanently to sleep. We are coming, said he, to a time when even the heaviest artillery will be caught with spiders’ webs and armies melt like snow. Ideas are crumbling, like old walls. The world shrinks, like the skin of a lichee nut, and men press together like wet sacks mildewed with fear. When the prophets give out the stones must speak. The patriarchs needed no megaphones. They stood still and waited for the Lord to appear unto them. Now we hop about like frogs, from one cesspool to another, and talk gibberish. Satan has stretched his net over the world and we leap out like fish ready for the frying pan. Man was set down in the midst of a garden, naked and dreamless. To each creature was given his place, his condition. Know thy place! was the commandment. Not Know thyself! The worm becomes a butterfly only when it becomes intoxicated with the splendor and magnificence of life.

  We have surrendered to despair. Ecstasy has given way to drunkenness. A man who is intoxicated with life sees visions, not snakes. He has no hangovers. Nowadays we have a blue bird in every home—corked and bottled. Sometimes it’s called Old Kentucky, sometimes it’s a license number—Vat 69. All poisonous, even when diluted.