by Henry Miller
“We’ll give this fly-by-night a few minutes to reappear,” he decided, “or we’ll investigate.”
The thought of a preposterous tale he had been on the verge of telling Naomi at the Café recurred to mind. Had he taken leave of his sense altogether? There were things one could apologize for—such as pulling goatees—but this tale . . . ! He heaved a sigh of relief.
What was the Holy Ghost doing up there so long? Were they holding a tryst?
But no . . . the poet was coming out of the vestibule. Cautiously he placed one foot before the other, treading softly, very very softly, down the stone stoop. He gripped the balustrade with the sweat of his moist palms. In the darkness his form had the appearance of an amorphous mass set in concrete clodhoppers. If one were to come suddenly upon the massive figure of Rodin’s Balzac of a foggy night one might observe a strange similarity in these two figures. Those who had never seen the Balzac under the conditions described often said that he resembled a crumpled Yiddish newspaper. (Why a “Yiddish” paper?) For the same reason, no doubt, that people speak of a “bright Sunday morning”; implying, it is to be assumed, that the seventh day of the week, when it is bright, is brighter than any of the other days in the week.
Moloch stood unnoticed during the other’s descent, eclipsed by the velvet shadow of the huge stoop. He watched the figure depart and lose itself, as a wraith makes its appearance on a darkened stage only to be quickly swallowed up by the wings. His mind was groping for an explanation to fit this strange episode. It encountered only high, blank walls.
And then a curious thing happened to him. The Colossus of Memnon faded completely from his mind, and perhaps for the fraction of a minute he was lost to the world about him. In a dreamlike state he saw himself again as a big, overgrown child, sucking a lollipop. His skin was very fair, and he had lovely, flaxen curls. Under his arm was a handsome, gilt-edged Testament bound in rich vellum. He was sitting in the belfry of the old Presbyterian Church, repeating like an automaton the words of the Twenty-third Psalm.
But why were the crowds down below muttering and shaking their ponderous fists at him? He grew terribly frightened. The lollipop fell out of his mouth, hit the pavement below with a resounding smack, and was shattered to bits, like a watch crystal. A panic seized him as the crowd surged closer, threatening to pull him and the belfry down.
Suddenly an angel appeared in the sky and swooped down upon him like a hawk. With a tremendous flapping of wings the angel carried him aloft, up into the azure reaches of the sky. When he recovered sufficiently to look into the angel’s face, he discovered that it was not a Gentile angel. The angel looked a hell of a lot like Prigozi, except that it had no wens, no spectacles, no blackheads. . . . Who was it said that it is not possible to conceive of an ugly angel? Well, then, whoever it was lied!
Dion Moloch made up his mind to storm the donjon. He stood outside Naomi’s door and knocked softly. There was no answer. He knocked again, very softly. He felt something smooth and slippery under his feet. Someone was fumbling with the lock. The door opened, ever so lightly, for just a fraction of a space, and he heard her whisper, “Who is there?”
The sound of her hushed voice coming from the darkness made his very guts tremble. He leaned his full weight against the door and pushed into the room. Her frightened form was vaguely visible in the center of the tiny room. “It’s me, Dion Moloch,” he whispered hoarsely, seizing her and fastening his mouth to hers. She made no resistance; her head fell back, her body completely relaxed. Thus they stood for several minutes; he released her to close the door. Locking it carefully, he extracted the key and placed it on the dresser.
She was still standing in the center of the room, clad in a flimsy nightshirt, her arms crossed on her bosom in the attitude of a martyr about to mount the stake. He grabbed her again and repeated his advances. She uttered not a word, but surrendered herself to him as in a dream.
“Were you expecting me?” he gasped finally.
He had awakened her from a profound slumber. She had been dreaming, so she related, of a woman robed in white who was carrying a pitcher to a well. The well was fearsomely deep, and looking down into its depths, the woman had seen the reflection of the moon, a slender crescent moon shimmering with opals. “I was still dreaming when I went to the door,” she concluded.
“And now,” he asked, “are you dreaming now?”
She reclined on a narrow cot, her exquisite figure revealed by the light of the street which managed to beat its way uncertainly through the yellow shade. Placing a robe over her prostrate figure, he knelt beside the bed to embrace her. The touch of his hand stealing lightly over her warm body made her tremble and cling to him. He lay down beside her, flesh to flesh, quivering with spasms of ecstasy. . . . “Naomi, Naomi,” he murmured in the darkness. . . .
The brief delirium of utter silence in which they were swallowed was shattered by a rude knock at the door. They heard a voice calling, “Naomi.”
Instantly she placed her hand on his mouth and implored him in a panic-stricken whisper to be quiet. “Don’t move!” she begged. The fragrance of her breath invaded his nostrils, mingled with his blood, and took complete possession of him. They clutched each other tightly, scarcely daring to breathe.
“Naomi, Naomi,” the voice called. “For God’s sake open the door. It’s only me. Please, please ... I won’t hurt you.”
There could be no doubt whose voice it was. Moloch gave a start; a feeling of horror and pity came over him. Naomi continued to hold her hand over his mouth. He could hear her heart pounding.
Meanwhile the voice continued to plead ... a perfect babble of entreaties, pitched in a low, wailing mode that threatened at any moment to break into sobs, or wild laughter.
“Naomi, say something. Don’t lie there like a dead one. Speak to me . . . speak to me. I’m going mad!”
The voice trailed off into a distaff of gibberish. Suddenly the door trembled, as if a heavy object had been thrown against it. This was followed by groans—mournful, sickening groans, that filled them with dread.
The picture of Prigozi, lying in a state of collapse outside the door, dominated Moloch’s mind. It made him writhe and squirm. Naomi clutched him frantically.
“Please don’t go,” she whispered. Her voice was hushed with awe.
“But he may be hurt. . . .”
The thought that Prigozi may have come there, of all places, to destroy himself filled Moloch with alarm. He pictured himself stumbling over a cold body in the dawn . . . ignoring it as if it were the body of a murdered criminal. . . . And the questions Blanche would ask! All her foul suspicions. . . .
Naomi tried to soothe him. She kissed him passionately, stroked his hair, fondled him and whispered her love in words that burned his ears. But he was immune. Prigozi might as well be lying in bed with them, between them, his sorrowful face upturned, baying to the moon.
“No one will know about us, Naomi. Don’t let him lie there. This is horrible. Let me go to him. ...” In vain he expostulated. She refused to let him move.
“No, no, no!” she whimpered. “You must stay here. He won’t die. You’ll see—he’ll go away. . . . He wouldn’t do ... that.” She buried her head on his bosom to avert the sinister shadow of the corpse.
Moloch thought and thought. “If one only knew what had happened to him! He might be shamming. It’s not impossible for him to do a trick like that.” He pursued this idea further, exhausting every shred of comfort there was in it. . . . To begin with, he asked himself, how was he to know that Prigozi hadn’t followed him? On the other hand, supposing he were in distress, supposing he really did take a notion to search for him, wouldn’t it be natural for him to come here first? He thought of their conversation in the lavatory, and the strange conduct of Prigozi thereafter. All that lunatic nonsense in the street, when they were taking him home—it was plain enough! The fellow was putting on so as to draw him back again. Prigozi couldn’t very well say, “Look here, Dion, I changed my m
ind about Naomi, I don’t want you to take her.” ... It was more simple to put up a ruse, to snare him away.
“By Jove! I have it!” he muttered, and sprang to a sitting position. Naomi sat up, too, and looked at him in bewilderment.
“The hell with him!” he exclaimed. “Let him lie there!” He pointed to the door with a gleeful expression, as though the door constituted a successful barricade against gnomes and goblins. Just then a whitish square gleamed with a faint reflected light at the crack of the door. He put his arm about Naomi and pointed to the object. There was a dark, irregular spot on the sheet of white as though a clot of blood had congealed upon it. Naomi was frightened; then she grew perplexed, and finally, unable to restrain her curiosity, she stole quietly out of the bed and tiptoed to the door. She bent over to examine the object. Moloch kept his eyes riveted to the spot.
She came close to him and held a piece of letter paper before his eyes. The dark spot was no longer there. Between her thumb and forefinger was the petal of a rose.
They lay flat on their stomachs and held the paper under the soft light that penetrated from beneath the window shade. The moment he glanced at the distorted characters Moloch was shocked. It was not that he recognized the handwriting. It would be impossible to recognize such a scrawl. He had seen such chirography before—from the pens of imbeciles and maniacs. His speculations were interrupted by the sound of Prigozi’s heavy body rustling at the door. They were startled. They gazed at one another with an expression of dubiety. In a moment came the sound of heavy, firm steps. They heard the wooden stairs creak and groan under the firm, vengeful tread. . . .
Naomi gave a sigh of relief. “It was he!” she exclaimed.
“Of course it was!” Moloch stopped short. “What the devil!” he reflected. “Could she have thought all along it was someone else?”
He looked at her quizzically. Naomi continued to gaze at him with the same evident relief.
“See, I told you not to worry,” she observed. She wondered what made him look at her so intently.
Moloch grasped the paper again and studied it carefully. Then he passed it to her to read. Naomi’s scrutiny was brief.
“Could he have written this?” she asked.
“He must have written it in the dark. See how the letters run—up and down hill. Certainly he wrote it. He did it as he lay there frightening us with his damned nonsense. Oh, he’s a sly devil, that bird!”
“But I can’t make it out,” cried Naomi, glancing again at the paper.
“You little goose! It’s a saying from the Bible.”
“Read it, then.”
“‘Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!’” He arched his eyebrows.
“Don’t you know what it means? You said you recognized it.”
“Certainly! It’s the handwriting on the wall that Daniel saw at the Feast of Belshazzar.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Oh ... the goose is cooked, or something like that.”
“Fancy that!” said Naomi. “He must be nuts!”
“You said it!”
They lay down to snatch a few hours’ sleep.
“You know, kid,” said Moloch quietly, after they had snuggled close, “you ought to read the Bible. No kidding! It’s a marvelous book. There’s everything in it; love, hate, fear, envy, malice, lust, greed, murder . . . everything that makes the world go round.”
“What queer thoughts!” Naomi reflected aloud.
“Above all,” he went on, “read Ecclesiastes.”
Silence.
“Naomi, what’s the matter? Aren’t you listening?”
Naomi had fallen into a bottomless pit.
14
WHENEVER THE PHENOMENON KNOWN TO ASTROLOgers as a “grand conjunction” took place this pockmarked planet became the scene of curious and extraordinary occurrences. The Great American Telegraph Company, for instance, usually responded to this portent by issuing a bonus to its employees.
Thus it happened that Dion Moloch found himself at Cooper Square one evening with several hundred dollars in his pocket. He might have bought himself an extra shirt or a new tie or, like most of the married men in the telegraph company, he might have rushed home to his wife with a bouquet of roses and, holding her hand to his, sat up half the night examining advertisements for suburban homes.
But he did none of these things. He kept the money intact in the right-hand pocket of his trousers. He had other plans. As he set his face towards the North River, whom did he see approaching but his very dear friend Randolph Scott.
“Well, you old bum!” shouted Randy, beaming affectionately.
They exchanged the usual greetings of old friends who have drifted apart and are somewhat ashamed of the fact.
“I wish you had been with me just a few hours ago,” said Randy. “Pfui! I saw something that made me turn cold inside.”
Moloch was curious. Randy could be upset by the most diverse phenomena. Sometimes he was overwhelmed by the sight of an old building being torn down; or, if it were late at night and a beggar accosted him, he went home blubbering. His latest revulsion was for dressed beef.
Randy stopped short in the middle of his narrative.
“Did you ever stop to examine a dressed pig?”
He made a shuddering grimace.
“Ugh! I saw one hanging in the window a little while ago. Man, you should have seen it! All suet! Christ! Do we turn into suet that way, too?”
Moloch let out a howl.
“So that’s what’s bothering you . . . suet?” He roared some more.
Randy looked peeved. “I don’t see what’s so funny in that. You go and stand in front of a meat store someday. Look at a dead pig for fifteen minutes. God, this one was nothing but fat, and the anus was simply a great big hole that had been cut away with a knife.”
“And you’re disturbed about how you’re going to look when you’re dead, is that it? Believe me, Randy, you won’t look half so good, I can tell you that.”
Randy hesitated a few moments. He was grappling with an idea.
“No-o-o,” he drawled, “I don’t give a damn what they do to me when I’m dead. I’m just thinking of what we carry around with us all the time—lumps of fat and gristle, blue and purplish veins, gizzards, bile, kidneys, a string of intestines . . . and that ugly damned skeleton. Wow!” He smacked his face soundly. It was a medieval touch, often employed in conjunction with the reading of Jeremiah.
Moloch thwacked him bravely for good measure. Randy coughed in embarrassment—one of those feeble theater coughs which saturates the culprit with the effluence of his own pity.
“It’s not age that’s getting you,” said Moloch heartily, “it’s just a touch of neurasthenia, you poor old slob. A little more poetry in your soul, and with that nervous sensitivity you could grind out marvelous stuff. The Germans would lionize you.” He gave Randy a stiff poke in the ribs.
“ ‘Man and Woman Going Through the Cancer Ward’! How do you fancy that for a title?”
“Are you going daffy?” said Randy. However, he was growing decidedly more cheerful. To him cancer was almost as engrossing as insanity.
It was a splendid evening for morbid inquiries. Sepia-colored clouds rent the sky in tatters. The Sixth Avenue “L” structure shrieked with the weight of human freight; it was human freight, all right, because thick newspapers separated one piece of freight from the other.
Presently Randy raised his voice above the din of traffic and, fired with a druid’s passion, bellowed in his companion’s ear:
“At this very minute people are passing out by the thousands, begging the Almighty to forgive them. The earth is filled with groans and wailing. Children are being torn from their mothers in pangs of childbirth; ships are going down at sea while the multitude listens placidly to radio concerts, safe and snug at home. Destruction and misery everywhere—that’s all I can see.”
Moloch made an ear trumpet of his hands.
“And I see lovers and mistresse
s, husbands and other men’s wives climbing into bed, snuggling under the blankets . . . Honolulu, Copenhagen, Zanzibar, Stamboul, Nagasaki, Moscow, Dubuque, Hoboken. They’re all around us, Randy . . . everywhere! If we could only knock the walls down this minute, eh what?”
“You win,” Randy exclaimed. “I knew we’d come to that sooner or later.”
He put his arms about his friend and licked him with bloodshot eyes. The universe which a moment ago had been an abattoir floating in a crimson lake became a chop suey joint again. (For Randolph Scott!)
Randolph Scott once read, in the pages of a financial journal, that light travels fast until it encounters the human mind. At the mention of lovers climbing into bed through all the gridiron of latitude and longitude his mind traveled so fast that he thought the scientists had made an error when they computed the speed at which light travels per second. It was absolutely ridiculous, to be sure, but after he had violated queens, dowagers, scullion maids, and all the coryphées of the Folies Bergère in turn, his mind was as dry as the inner rind of a navel orange.
“Keep this under your hat,” he announced, “but I’ve been striking some good stuff lately. You ought to get a car, do you know that?”
“Yes?” said the other, thinking of Roxand, daughter of the king of Samarkand, swooning in the mist of centuries.
“Do you still keep a notebook?” Moloch ventured to inquire.
“A notebook? What do I need a notebook for?”
“Telephone numbers.”
“Telephone numbers? What... with the way these floozies are running around? Wait here a few minutes; I’ll get you as nifty a piece of . . .”
“Hold on, Randy! Not now.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“Come along with me. I’m giving a blowout . . . wine, spaghetti, cigarros . . . any damned thing you want.”
“What’s come over you all of a sudden ... too much money?”
“Hell, no! I’m paying off a bunch of old debts.”
“Don’t be foolish! Pay half of them . . . stick the rest in the bank. Come on, I know where we can pick up . . .”