Nexus

by Henry Miller

  But Val, dear, came her gentle voice, we’re not staying there forever, you know.

  A day there will be like an eternity here. And how do you know how long or short our stay will be? Maybe war will break out; maybe we won’t be able to return. Who knows the lot of man on earth?

  Val, you’re making too much of it. It’s going to be a vacation, nothing more.

  Not for me. For me it’s a break through. I refuse to stay on parole. I’ve served my time, I’m through here.

  I dragged her to the window. Look! Look out there! Take a good look! That’s America. See those trees? See those fences? See those houses? And those fools hanging out the window yonder? Think I’ll miss them? Never! I began to gesticulate like a half-wit. I thumbed my nose at them. Miss you, you dopes, you ninnies? Not this fella. Never!

  Come, Val, come sit down. Have a bit of breakfast. She led me to the table.

  Okay then, breakfast! This morning I’d like a slice of ‘Watermelon, the left wing of a turkey, a bit of possum and some good old-fashioned corn pone. Father Abraham’s ‘done ‘mancipated me. Ise nevah goin’ back to Carolina. Father Abraham done freed us all. Hallelujah!

  What’s more, I said, resuming my own natural white trash voice, I’m done writing novels. I’m a member elect of the wild duck family. I’m going to chronicle my hard-earned misery and play it off tune—in the upper partials. How do you like that?

  She deposited two soft-boiled eggs in front of me, a piece of toast and some jam. Coffee in a minute, dear. Keep talking!

  You call it talk, eh? Listen, do we still have that Poeme d’Extase? Put it on, if you can find it. Put it on loud. His music sounds like I think—sometimes. Has that far off cosmic itch. Divinely fouled up. All fire and air. The first time I heard it I played it over and over. Couldn’t shut it off. It was like a bath of ice, cocaine and rainbows. For weeks I went about in a trance. Something had happened to me. Now this sounds crazy, but it’s true. Every time a thought seized me a little door would open inside my chest, and there, in his comfy little nest sat a bird, the sweetest, gentlest bird imaginable. Think it out! he would chirp. Think it out to the end! And I would, by God. Never any effort involved. Like an etude gliding off a glacier…

  As I was slooping up the soft-boiled eggs a peculiar smile hovered about my lips.

  What is it? she said. What now, my crazy one?

  Horses. That’s what I’m thinking. I wish we were going to Russia first. You remember Gogol and the troika? You don’t suppose he could have written that passage if Russia was motorized, do you? He was talking horses. Stallions, that’s what they were. A horse travels like wind. A horse flies. A spirited horse, anyway. How would Homer have rushed the gods back and forth without those fiery steeds he made use of? Can you imagine him manoeuvering those quarrelsome divinities in a Rolls Royce? To whip up ecstasy … and that brings me back to Scriabin … you didn’t find it, eh? … you’ve got to make use of cosmic ingredients. Besides arms, legs, hooves, claws, fangs, marrow and grit you’ve got to throw in the equinoctial precessions, the ebb and flow of tide, the conjunctions of sun, moon and planets, and the ravings of the insane. Besides rainbows, comets and the Northern lights you’ve got to have eclipses, sun spots, plagues, miracles … all sorts of things, including fools, magicians, witches, leprechauns, Jack the Rippers, lecherous priests, jaded monarchs, saintly saints … but not motor cars, not refrigerators, not washing machines, not tanks, not telegraph poles.

  Such a beautiful Spring morning. Did I mention Shelley? Too good for his likes. Or for Keats or Wordsworth. A Jacob Boehme morning, nothing less. No flies yet, no mosquitos. Not even a cockroach in sight. Splendid. Just splendid. (If only she would find that Scriabin record!)

  Must have been a morning like this that Joan of Arc passed through Chinon on her way to the king. Rabelais, unfortunately, was not yet born, else he might have glimpsed her from his cradle near the window. Ah, that heavenly view which his window commanded!

  Yes, even if MacGregor were to suddenly appear I could not fall from grace. I would sit him down and tell him of Masaccio or of the Vita Nuova. I might even read from Shakespeare, on a frangipanic morning like this. From the Sonnets, not the plays.

  A vacation, she called it. The word bothered me. She might as well have said coitus interruptus.

  (Must remember to get the addresses of her relatives in Vienna and Roumania.)

  There was nothing to keep me chained indoors any longer. The novel was finished, the money was in the bank, the trunk was packed, the passports were in order, the Angel of Mercy was guarding the tomb. And the wild stallions of Gogol were still racing like the wind.

  Lead on, O kindly light!

  Why don’t you take in a show? she said, as I was making for the door.

  Maybe I will, I replied. Don’t hatch any eggs till I get back.

  On the impulse I decided to say hello to Reb. It might be the last time I’d ever set foot in that ghastly place of his. (It was too.) Passing the news stand at the corner I bought a paper and left a fifty cent piece in the tin cup. That was to make up for the nickels and dimes I had swiped from the blind newsie at Borough Hall. It felt good, even though I had deposited it in the wrong man’s cup. I gave myself a sock in the kishkas for good measure.

  Reb was in the back of the store sweeping up. Well, well, look who’s here! he shouted.

  What a morning, eh? Doesn’t it make you feel like breaking out?

  What are you up to? he said, putting the broom aside. Haven’t the faintest idea, Reb. Just wanted to say hello to you.

  You wouldn’t want to go for a spin, would you? I would, if you had a tandem. Or a pair of fast horses. No, not to-day. It’s a day for walking, not riding. I pulled my elbows in, arched my neck, and trotted to the door and back. See, they’ll carry me far, these legs. No need to do ninety or a hundred.

  You seem to be in a good mood, he said. Soon you’ll be walking the streets of Paris.

  Paris, Vienna, Prague, Budapest … maybe Warsaw, Moscow, Odessa. Who knows? Miller, I envy you. Brief pause.

  I say, why don’t you visit Maxim Gorky while you’re over there?

  Is Gorky still alive?

  Sure he is. And I’ll tell you another man you ought to look up, though he may be dead by now. Who’s that?

  Henri Barbusse.

  I’d sure like to, Reb, but you know me … I’m timid. Besides, what excuse would I have for busting in on them? Excuse? he shouted. Why, they’d be delighted to know you.

  Reb, you have an exalted opinion of me. Nonsense I They’d greet you with open arms.

  Okay, I’ll keep it in the back of my noodle. I’m toddling along now. Paying my last respects to the dead.

  So long!

  A few doors distant a radio was blaring away. It was a commercial advertising Last Supper tablecloths, only two dollars a pair.

  My way lay along Myrtle Avenue. Dreary, weary, flea-bitten Myrtle Avenue striped down the middle with a rusty Elevated line. Through the ties and the iron girders the sun was pouring shafts of golden light. No longer a prisoner, the street assumed another aspect. I was a tourist now, with time on my hands and a curious eye for everything. Gone the atrabilious fiend listing to starboard with the weight of his ennui. In front of the bakery where O’Mara and I once lapped up egg drop soup I paused a moment to inspect the show window. Same old crumb cakes and apple cakes in the window, protected by the same old wrapping paper. It was a German bakery, of course. (Tante Melia always spoke affectionately of the Kondittorei she visited in Bremen and Hamburg. Affectionately, I say, because she made little distinction between pastry and other kind-hearted beings.) No, it wasn’t such a god-awful street after all. Not if you were a visitor from that far off planet Pluto.

  Moving along I thought of the Buddenbrooks family and then of Tonio Kruger. Dear old Thomas Mann. Such a marvellous craftsman. (I should have bought a piece of Streuselkuchen!) Yes, in the photos I’d seen of him he looked a bit like a storekeeper. I could visualize h
im writing his Novellen in the back of a delicatessen store, with a yard of linked sausages wrapped around his neck. What he would have made of Myrtle Avenue! Call on Gorky while you’re at it. Wasn’t that fantastic? Easier far to obtain an audience with the King of Bulgaria. If there were any calls to be made I had the man already picked: Elie Faure. How would he take it, I wonder, if I asked to kiss his hand?

  A street car rattled by. I caught a glimpse of the motor-man’s flowing moustache as it rushed by. Presto! The name leaped to mind like a flash. Knut Hamsun. Think of it, the novelist who finally earns the Nobel Prize operating a street car in this God-forsaken land! Where was it again—Chicago? Yeah, Chicago. And then he returns to Norway and writes Hunger. Or was it Hunger first and then the motorman’s job? Anyway, he never produced a dud.

  I noticed a bench at the curb. (Most unusual thing.) Like the angel Gabriel, I lowered my ass. Ouf! What was the sense in walking one’s legs off? I leaned back and opened my mouth wide to drink in the solar rays. How are you? I said, meaning America, the whole bloody works. Strange country, isn’t it? Notice the birds! They look seedy, droopy, eh what what?

  I closed my eyes, not to snooze but to summon the image of the ancestral home carved out of the Middle Ages. How charming, how delightful it looked, this forgotten village! A labyrinth of walled streets with canals running serpent wise; statues (of musician only), malls, fountains, squares and triangles; every lane led to the hub where the quaint house of worship with its delicate spires stood. Everything moving at a snail’s pace. Swans floating on the still surface of the lake; pigeons cooing in the belfry of the church; awnings, striped like pantaloons, shading the tesselated terraces. So utterly peaceful, so idyllic, so dream like!

  I rubbed my eyes. Now where on earth had I dug that up? Was it Buxtehude perhaps? (The way my grandfather pronounced the word I always took it for a place, not a man.)

  Don’t let him read too much, it’s bad for his eyes.

  Seated at the edge of his work bench, where he sat with legs doubled up, making coats for Isaac Walker’s menagerie of fine gentlemen, I read aloud to him from Hans Christian Andersen.

  Put the book away now, he says gently. Go out and play.

  I go down to the backyard and, having nothing more interesting to do, I peek between the slats of the wooden fence which separated our property from the smoke house. Rows and rows of stiff, blackened fish greet my eyes. The pungent, acrid odor is almost overpowering. They’re hanging by the gills, these rigid, frightened fish; their popping eyes gleam in the dark like wet jewels.

  Returning to my grandfather’s bench, I ask him why dead things are always so stiff. And he answers: Because there’s no joy in them any more.

  Why did you leave Germany? I ask.

  Because I didn’t want to be a soldier.

  I would like to be a soldier, I said.

  Wait, he said, wait till the bullets fly.

  He hums a little tune while he sews. Shoo fly, don’t bother me!

  What are you going to be when you grow up? A tailor, like your father?

  I want to be a sailor, I reply promptly. I want to see the world.

  Then don’t read so much. You’ll need good eyes if you’re going to be a sailor.

  Yes, Grosspapa. (That’s how we called him.) Goodbye, Grosspapa.

  I remember the way he eyed me as I walked to the door. A quizzical look, it was. What was he thinking? That I’d never make a sailor man?

  Further retrospection was broken by the approach of a most seedy looking bum with hand outstretched. Could I spare a dime, he wanted to know.

  Sure, I said. I can spare a lot more, if you need it.

  He took a seat beside me. He was shaking as if he had the palsy. I offered him a cigarette and lit it for him.

  Wouldn’t a dollar be better than a dime? I said.

  He gave me a weird look, like a horse about to shy. What it is? he said. What’s the deal?

  I lit myself a cigarette, stretched my legs full length, and slowly, as if deciphering a bill of lading, I replied: When a man is about to make a journey to foreign lands, there to eat and drink his fill, to wander as he pleases and to wonder, what’s a dollar more or less? Another shot of rye is what you want, I take it. As for me, what I would like is to be able to speak French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, possibly a little Arabic too. If I had my choice, I’d sail this minute. But that’s not for you to worry about. Look, I can offer you a dollar, two dollars, five dollars. Five’s the maximum—unless the banshees are after you. What say? You don’t have to sing any hymns either…

  He acted jumpy like. Edged away from me instinctively, as if I were bad medicine.

  Mister, he said, all I need is a quarter … two bits. That’ll do. And I’ll thank you kindly.

  Half rising to his feet, he held out his palm.

  Don’t be in a hurry, I begged. A quarter, you say. What good is a quarter? What can you buy for that? Why do things half-way? It’s not American. Why not get yourself a flask of rot gut? And a shave and hair-cut too? Anything but a Rolls Royce. I told you, five’s the maximum. Just say the word.

  Honest, mister, I don’t need that much.

  You do too. How can you talk that way? You need lots and lots of things—food, sleep, soap and water, more booze…

  Two bits, that’s all I want, mister.

  I fished out a quarter and placed it in his palm. Okay, I said, if that’s the way you want it.

  He was trembling so that the coin slipped out of his hand and rolled into the gutter. As he bent over to pick it up I pulled him back.

  Let it stay there, I said. Some one may come along and find it. Good luck, you know. Here, here’s another. Hold on to it now!

  He got up, his eye riveted to the coin in the gutter.

  Can’t I have that one too, mister?

  Of course you can. But then, what about the other fellow?

  What other fellow?

  Any old fellow. What’s the difference?

  I held him by the sleeve. Hold on a minute, I’ve got a better idea. Leave that quarter where it is and I’ll give you a bill instead. You don’t mind taking a dollar, do you? I pulled a roll out of my trousers pocket and extracted a dollar bill. Before you convert this into more poison, I said, closing his fist over it, listen to this, it’s a real good thought. Imagine, if you can, that it’s tomorrow and that you’re passing this same spot, wondering who’ll give you a dime. I won’t be here, you see. I’ll be on the Ile de France. Now then, your throat’s parched and all that, and who comes along but a well-dressed guy with nothing to do—like me—and he flops down … right here on this same bench. Now what do you do? You go up to him, same as always, and you say—’Spare a dime, mister?’ And he’ll shake his head. No! Now then, here’s the surprise, here’s the thought I had for you. Don’t run away with your tail between your legs. Stand firm and smile … a kindly smile. Then say: Mister, I was only joking. I don’t need no dime. Here’s a buck for you, and may God protect you always! See? Won’t that be jolly?

  In a panic he clutched the bill which I held in my fingers and struggled free of my grip.

  Mister, he said, backing away, you’re nuts. Plain nuts.

  He turned and hurried off. A few yards away he stopped, faced about. Waving his fist at me and grimacing like a loon, he shouted at the top of his lungs: You crazy bugger! You dirty cocksucker! Piss on you, you goon! He waved the bill in the air, made a few dirty faces, stuck his tongue out, then took to his heels.

  There you are, I said to myself. Couldn’t take a little joke. Had I offered him six bits and said, ‘Now try to imitate a stench trap in a soil pipe,’ he would have been grateful. I reached down and salvaged the quarter that was in the gutter. Now he’ll really get a surprise, I murmured, placing the coin on the bench.

  I opened the newspaper, turned to the theatre section, and scanned the bill of fare. Nothing to rave about at the Palace. The movies? Same old chili con carne. The burlesque? Closed for repairs.

&nbs
p; What a city! There were the museums and the art galleries, of course. And the Aquarium. If I were a bum, now, and some one handed me a thousand dollar bill by mistake, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

  Such a wonderful day too. The sun was eating into me like a million moth balls. A millionaire in a world where money was worthless.

  I tried to summon a pleasant thought. I tried to think of America as a place I had only heard about.

  Open, in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!

  And it opened like the door of a hidden vault. There it was, America: the Garden of the Gods, the Grand Canyon of Arizona, the Great Smokies, the Painted Desert, Mesa Verde, the Mojave Desert, the Klondike, the Great Divide, the Wabash far away, the great Serpent Mound, the Valley of the Moon, the great Salt Lake, the Monongahela, the Ozarks, the Mother Lode country, the Blue Grass of Kentucky, the bayous of Louisiana, the Bad Lands of Dakota, Sing Sing, Walla Walla, Ponce de Leon, Oraibi, Jesse James, the Alamo, the Everglades, the Okifinokee, the Pony Express, Gettysburg, Mt. Shasta, the Tehachipis, Fort Ticonderoga.

  It’s the day after to-morrow and I’m standing at the taffrail aboard the S. S. Buford … I mean the Ile de France. (I forgot, I’m not being deported, I’m going to have a holiday abroad.) For a moment I thought I was that beloved anarchist, Emma Goldman, who, as she was approaching the land of exile, is reported to have said: I long for the land (America) that has made me suffer. Have I not also known love and joy there…? She too had come in search of freedom, like many another. Had it not been opened, this blessed land of freedom, for every one to enjoy? (With the exception, to be sure, of the redskins, the black skins and the yellow bellies of Asia.) It was in this spirit my Grosspapas and my Grossmamas had come. The long voyage home. Windjammers. Ninety to a hundred days at sea, with dysentery, beri-beri, crabs, lice, rabies, yellow jaundice, malaria, katzenjammer and other ocean going delights. They had found life good here in America, my forbears, though in the struggle to keep body and soul together they had fallen apart before their time. (Still, their graves are in good condition.) They had come some decades after Ethan Allen had forced Ticonderoga open in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress. To be exact, they had come just in time to witness the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Other assassinations were to follow—but of lesser figures. And we have survived, we crap shooters.