Desire

by Mariella Frostrup

  From QUIET DAYS IN CLICHY

  Henry Miller

  Henry Miller sought to re-establish the freedom to live without the conventional restraints of civilization. His books are potpourris of sexual description, quasi-philosophical speculation, reflection on literature and society, surrealistic imaginings, and autobiographical incident. After living in Paris in the 1930s, he returned to the United States and settled in Big Sur, California. Miller’s first two works, Tropic of Cancer (1934) and Tropic of Capricorn (1939), were denied publication in the USA until the early 1960s because of alleged obscenity. The Colossus of Maroussi (1941), a travel book of modern Greece, is considered by some critics his best work. His other writings include the Rosy Crucifixion Trilogy – Sexus (1949), Plexus (1953), and Nexus (1960). In 1976 Norman Mailer edited a selection of Miller’s writings, Genius and Lust.

  At one corner of the Place Clichy is the Café Wepler, which was for a long period my favourite haunt. I have sat there inside and out at all times of the day in all kinds of weather. I knew it like a book. The faces of the waiters, the managers, the cashiers, the whores, the clientele, even the attendants in the lavatory, are engraved in my memory as if they were illustrations in a book which I read every day. I remember the first day I entered the Café Wepler, in the year 1928, with my wife in tow; I remember the shock I experienced when I saw a whore fall dead drunk across one of the little tables on the terrace and nobody ran to her assistance. I was amazed and horrified by the stoical indifference of the French; I still am, despite all the good qualities in them which I have since come to know. “It’s nothing, it was just a whore... she was drunk.” I can still hear those words. Even today they make me shudder. But it is very French, this attitude, and, if you don’t learn to accept it, your stay in France won’t be very pleasant.

  On the grey days, when it was chilly everywhere except in the big cafés, I looked forward with pleasure to spending an hour or two at the Café Wepler before going to dinner. The rosy glow which suffused the place emanated from the cluster of whores who usually congregated near the entrance. As they gradually distributed themselves among the clientele, the place became not only warm and rosy but fragrant. They fluttered about in the dimming light like perfumed fireflies. Those who had not been fortunate enough to find a customer would saunter slowly out to the street, usually to return in a little while and resume their old places. Others swaggered in, looking fresh and ready for the evening’s work. In the corner where they usually congregated it was like an exchange, the sex market, which has its ups and downs like other exchanges. A rainy day was usually a good day, it seemed to me. There are only two things you can do on a rainy day, as the saying goes, and the whores never wasted time playing cards.

  It was in the late afternoon of a rainy day that I espied a newcomer at the Café Wepler. I had been out shopping, and my arms were loaded with books and phonograph records. I must have received an unexpected remittance from America that day because, despite the purchases I had made, I still had a few hundred francs in my pocket. I sat down near the place of exchange, surrounded by a bevy of hungry, itching whores whom I had no difficulty whatever in eluding because my eyes were fastened on this ravishing beauty who was sitting apart in a far corner of the café. I took her to be an attractive young woman who had made a rendezvous with her lover and who had come ahead of time perhaps. The apéritif which she had ordered had hardly been touched. At the men who passed her table she gave a full, steady glance, but that indicated nothing – a French-woman doesn’t avert her glance as does the English or the American woman. She looked around quietly, appraisingly, but without obvious effort to attract attention. She was discreet and dignified, thoroughly poised and self-contained. She was waiting. I too was waiting. I was curious to see whom she was waiting for. After a half hour, during which time I caught her eye a number of times and held it, I made up my mind that she was waiting for anyone who would make the proper overture. Ordinarily one has only to give a sign with the head or the hand and the girl will leave her table and join you – if she’s that kind of girl. I was not absolutely sure even yet. She looked too good to me, too sleek, too well – nurtured, I might say.

  When the waiter came round again I pointed her out and asked him if he knew her. When he said no I suggested that he invite her to come over and join me. I watched her face as he delivered the message. It gave me quite a thrill to see her smile and look my way with a nod of recognition. I expected her to get up immediately and come over, but instead she remained seated and smiled again, more discreetly this time, whereupon she turned her head away and appeared to gaze out the window dreamily. I allowed a few moments to intervene and then, seeing that she had no intention of making a move, I rose and walked over to her table. She greeted me cordially enough, quite as if I were a friend indeed, but I noticed that she was a little flustered, almost embarrassed. I wasn’t sure whether she wanted me to sit down or not, but I sat down nevertheless and, after ordering drinks, quickly engaged her in conversation. Her voice was even more thrilling than her smile; it was well-pitched, rather low, and throaty. It was the voice of a woman who is glad to be alive, who indulges herself, who is careless and indigent, and who will do anything to preserve the modicum of freedom which she possesses. It was the voice of a giver, of a spender; its appeal went to the diaphragm rather than the heart.

  I was surprised, I must confess, when she hastened to explain to me that I had made a faux pas in coming over to her table. “I thought you had understood,” she said, “that I would join you outside. That’s what I was trying to tell you telegraphically.” She intimated that she did not want to be known here as a professional. I apologised for the blunder and offered to withdraw, which she accepted as a delicate gesture to be ignored by a squeeze of the hand and a gracious smile.

  “What are all these things?” she said, quickly changing the subject by pretending to be interested in the packages which I had placed on the table.

  “Just books and records,” I said, implying that they would hardly interest her.

  “Are they French authors?” she asked, suddenly injecting a note of genuine enthusiasm, it seemed to me.

  “Yes,” I replied, “but they are rather dull, I fear. Proust, Céline, Elie Faure... You’d prefer Maurice Dekobra, no?”

  “Let me see them, please. I want to see what kind of French books an American reads.”

  I opened the package and handed her the Elie Faure. It was The Dance over Fire and Water. She riffled the pages, smiling, making little exclamations as she read here and there. Then she deliberately put the book down, closed it, and put her hand over it as if to keep it closed. “Enough, let us talk about something more interesting.” After a moment’s silence, she added: “Ce-lui-là, est-il vraiment français?”

  “Un vrai de vrai,” I replied, with a broad grin.

  She seemed puzzled. “It’s excellent French,” she went on, as if to herself, “and yet it’s not French either... Comment dirais-je?”

  I was about to say that I understood perfectly when she threw herself back against the cushion, took hold of my hand and, with a roguish smile which was meant to reinforce her candour, said: “Look, I am a thoroughly lazy creature. I haven’t the patience to read books. It’s too much for my feeble brain.”

  “There are lots of other things to do in life,” I answered, returning her smile. So saying, I placed my hand on her leg and squeezed it warmly. In an instant her hand covered mine, removed it to the soft, fleshy part. Then, almost as quickly, she drew my hand away with an – “Assez, nous ne sommes pas seuls ici.”

  We sipped our drinks and relaxed. I was in no hurry to rush her off. For one thing, I was too enchanted by her speech, which was distinctive and which told me that she was not a Parisian. It was a pure French she spoke, and for a foreigner like myself a joy to listen to. She pronounced every word distinctly, using almost no slang, no colloquialisms. The words came out of her mouth fully formed and with a retarded tempo, as if she had rolle
d them on her palate before surrendering them to the void wherein the sound and the meaning are so swiftly transformed. Her laziness, which was voluptuous, feathered the words with a soft down; they came floating to my ears like balls of fluff. Her body was heavy, earth-laden, but the sounds which issued from her throat were like the clear notes of a bell.

  She was made for it, as the saying goes, but she did not impress me as an out-and-out whore. That she would go with me, and take money for it, I knew – but that doesn’t make a woman a whore.

  She put a hand on me and, like a trained seal, my pecker rose jubilantly to her delicate caress.

  “Contain yourself,” she murmured, “it’s bad to get excited too quickly.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said I, beckoning the waiter.

  “Yes,” she said, “let’s go somewhere where we can talk at leisure.”

  The less talking the better, I thought to myself, as I gathered my things and escorted her to the street. A wonderful piece of ass, I reflected, watching her sail through the revolving door. I already saw her dangling on the end of my cock, a fresh, hefty piece of meat waiting to be cured and trimmed.

  As we were crossing the boulevard she remarked how pleased she was to have found someone like me. She knew no one in Paris, she was lonesome. Perhaps I would take her around, show her the city? It would be amusing to be guided about the city, the capital of one’s own country, by a stranger. Had I ever been to Amboise or Blois or Tours? Maybe we could take a trip together some day. “Ca vous plairait?”

  We tripped along, chatting thus, until we came to a hotel which she seemed to know. “It’s clean and cozy here,” she said. “And if it’s a little chilly, we will warm each other in bed.” She squeezed my arm affectionately.

  The room was as cozy as a nest. I waited a moment for soap and towels, tipped the maid, and locked the door. She had taken off her hat and fur piece, and stood waiting to embrace me at the window. What a warm, plantular piece of flesh! I thought she would burst into seed under my touch. In a few moments we started to undress. I sat down on the edge of the bed to unlace my shoes. She was standing beside me, pulling off her things. When I looked up she had nothing on but her stockings. She stood there, waiting for me to examine her more attentively. I got up and put my arms around her again, running my hands leisurely over the billowy folds of flesh. She pulled out of the embrace and, holding me at arm’s length enquired coyly if I were not somewhat deceived.

  “Deceived?” I echoed. “How do you mean?”

  “Am I not too fat?” she said, dropping her eyes and resting them on her navel.

  “Too fat? Why, you’re marvellous. You’re like a Renoir.”

  At this she blushed. “A Renoir?” she repeated, almost as if she had never heard the name. “No, you’re joking.”

  “Oh, never mind. Come here, let me stroke that pussy of yours.”

  “Wait, I will first make my toilette.” As she moved towards the bidet she said: “You get into bed. Make it nice and toasty, yes?”

  I undressed quickly, washed my cock out of politeness, and dove between the sheets. The bidet was right beside the bed. When she had finished her ablutions she began to dry herself with the thin, worn towel. I leaned over and grabbed her tousled bush, which was still a little dewy. She pushed me back into bed and, leaning over me, made a quick dive for it with her warm red mouth. I slipped a finger inside her to get the juice working. Then, pulling her on top of me, I sank it in up to the hilt. It was one of those cunts which fit like a glove. Her adroit muscular contractions soon had me gasping. All the while she licked my neck, my armpits, the lobes of my ears. With my two hands I lifted her up and down, rolling her pelvis round and round. Finally, with a groan, she bore down on me full weight; I rolled her over on her back, pulled her legs up over my shoulders, and went at her slam-bang. I thought I’d never stop coming; it came out in steady stream, as if from a garden hose. When I pulled away it seemed to me that I had an even bigger erection then when I plugged in.

  “Ca c’est quelque chose,” she said, putting her hand around my cock and fingering it appraisingly. “You know how to do it, don’t you?”

  We got up, washed, and crawled back into bed again. Reclining on an elbow, I ran my hand up and down her body. Her eyes were glowing as she lay back, thoroughly relaxed, her legs open, her flesh tingling. Nothing was said for several minutes. I lit a cigarette for her, put it in her mouth, and sank deep into the bed, staring contentedly at the ceiling.

  “Are we going to see more of each other?” I asked after a time.

  “That is up to you,” she said, taking a deep puff. She turned over to put her cigarette out and then, drawing close, gazing at me steadily, smiling, but serious, she said in her low, warbling voice: “Listen, I must talk to you seriously. There is a great favour I wish to ask of you... I am in trouble, great trouble. Would you help me, if I asked you to?”

  “Of course,” I said, “but how?”

  “I mean money,” she said, quietly and simply. “I need a great deal... I must have it. I won’t explain why. Just believe me, will you?”

  I leaned over and yanked my pants off the chair. I fished out the bills and all the change that was in my pocket, and handed it to her.