by Henry Miller
Look! she cried. What’s the matter with him?
Only my eyes moved. Otherwise I might have been a statue. Worse, a stiff!
She shook my arm which was hanging limp. It quivered and twitched a little. Still not a peep out of me.
Come here! she called, and Mona came on the gallop.
Look at him!
It was time to stir myself. Without moving from the spot or changing my position, I unhinged my jaw and said—but like the man in the iron mask—: There’s nothing wrong, dearies. Don’t be alarmed. I was just … just thinking.
Thinking? they shrieked.
Yes, little cherubs, thinking. What’s so strange about that?
Sit down! begged Mona, and she quickly drew up a chair. I sank into the chair as if into a pool of warm water. How good to make that little move! Yet I didn’t want to feel good. I wanted to enjoy my depression.
Was it from standing there glued to the wall that I had become so beautifully stilled? Though my mind was still active, it was quietly active. It was no longer running away with me. Thoughts came and went, slowly, lingeringly, allowing me time to cuddle them, fondle them. It was in this delicious slow drift that I had reached the point, a moment before their arrival, of dwelling with clarity on the final act of the play. It had begun to write itself out in my head, without the least effort on my part.
Seated now, with my back half-turned to them, as were my thoughts, I began to speak in the manner of an automaton. I was not conversing, merely speaking my lines, as it were. Like an actor in his dressing room, who continues to go through the motions though the curtain has fallen.
They had grown strangely quiet, I sensed. Usually they were fussing with their hair or their nails. Now they were so still that my words echoed back from the walls.
I was able to speak and to listen to myself at the same time. Delicious. Pleasantly hallucinated, so to speak.
I realized that if I stopped talking for one moment the spell would be broken. But it gave me no anxiety to think this thought. I would continue, as I told myself, until I gave out. Or until it gave out.
Thus, through the slit in the mask, I continued on and on, always in the same even, measured, hollow tone. As one does with mouth closed on finishing a book which is too unbelievably good.
Reduced to ashes by Stanley’s heartless words, I had come face to face with the source, with authorship itself, one might say. And how utterly different this was, this quiet flow from the source, than the strident act of creation which is writing! Dive deep and never come up! should be the motto for all who hunger to create in words. For only in the tranquil depths is it granted us to see and hear, to move and be. What a boon to sink to the very bottom of one’s being and never stir again!
In coming to I wheeled slowly around like a great lazy cod and fastened them with my motionless eyes. I felt exactly like some monster of the deep who has never known the world of humans, the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of flowers, the sound of birds, beasts or men. I peered at them with huge veiled orbs accustomed only to looking inward. How strangely wondrous was the world in this instant! I saw them and the room in which they were seated with eyes unsated: I saw them in their everlastingness, the room too, as if it were the only room in the whole wide world; I saw the walls of the room recede and the city beyond it melt to nothingness; I saw fields ploughed to infinity, lakes, seas, oceans melt into space, a space studded with fiery orbs, and in the pure unfading limitless light there whirred before my eyes radiant hosts of godlike creatures, angels, arch-angels, seraphim, cherubim.
As if a mist were suddenly blown away by a strong wind, I came to with both feet and with this absolutely irrelevant thought uppermost in my mind—that Christmas was on us.
What are we going to do? I groaned.
Just go on talking, said Stasia. I’ve never seen you this way before.
Christmas! I said. What are we going to do about Christmas?
Christmas? she yelled. For a moment she thought I was speaking symbolically. When she realized that I was no longer the person who had enchanted her she said: Christ! I don’t want to hear another word.
Good, said I, as she ducked into her room. Now we can talk.
Wait, Val, wait! cried Mona, her eyes misty. Don’t spoil it, I beg you.
It’s over, I replied. Over and done with. There is no more. Curtain.
Oh, but there is, there must be! she pleaded. Look, just be quiet … sit there … let me get you a drink.
Good, get me a drink! And some food! I’m famished. Where’s that Stasia? Come on, let’s eat and drink and talk our heads off. Fuck Christmas! Fuck Santa Claus! Let Stasia be Santa Claus for a change.
The two of them now hustled about to do me pleasure. They were so terribly eager to satisfy my least whim … it was almost as if an Elijah had appeared to them from out of the sky.
Is there any of that Rhine wine left? I yelled. Trot it out!
I was extraordinarily hungry and thirsty. I could scarcely wait for them to set something before me.
That damned Polak! I muttered.
What? said Stasia.
What was I talking about anyway? It’s all like a dream now … What I was thinking—is that what you wanted to know?—is that … is how wonderful it would be … if…
If what?
Never mind … I’ll tell you later. Hurry up and sit down!
Now I was electrified. Fish, was I? An electric eel, rather. All a-sparkle. And famished. Perhaps that’s why I glittered and sparkled so. I had a body again. Oh how good it was to be back in the flesh! How good to be eating and drinking, breathing, shouting!
It’s a strange thing, I began, after I had wolfed some victuals, how little we reveal of our true selves even when at our best. You’d like me to carry on where I left off, I suppose? Must have been exciting, all that stuff I dredged up from the bottom. Only the aura of it remains now. But one thing I’m sure of—I know that I wasn’t out of myself. I was in, in deeper than I’ve ever, ever been … I was spouting like a fish, did you notice? Not an ordinary fish, either, but the sort that lives on the ocean floor.
I took a good gulp of wine. Marvelous wine, Rhine wine.
The strange thing is that it all came about because of that skeleton of a play on the wall over there. I saw and heard the whole thing. Why try to write it, eh? There was only one reason why I ever thought of doing it, and that was to relieve my misery. You know how miserable I am, don’t you?
We looked at one other. Static.
It’s funny, but in that state I was in everything seemed entirely as it should be. I didn’t have to make the least effort to understand: everything was meaningful, justifiable and everlastingly real. Nor were you the devils I sometimes take you for. You weren’t angels either, because I had a glimpse of real ones. They were something else again. I can’t say as I’d want to see things that way all the time. Only statues…
Stasia broke in. What way? she wanted to know.
Everything at once, I said. Past, present, future; earth, air, fire and water. A motionless wheel. A wheel of light, I feel like saying. And the light revolving, not the wheel.
She reached for a pencil, as if to make a note.
Don’t! I said. Words can’t render the reality of it. What I’m telling you is nothing. I’m talking because I can’t help it, but it’s only a talking about. What happened I couldn’t possibly tell you … It’s like that play again. The play I saw and heard no man could write. What one writes is what one wants to happen. Take us, we didn’t happen, did we? No one thought us up. We are, that’s all. We always were. There’s a difference, what?
I turned directly to Mona. I’m really going to look for a job soon. You don’t suppose I’m ever going to write living this kind of life, do you? Let’s whore it, that’s my idea now.
A murmur escaped her lips, as if she were about to protest, but it died immediately.
Yes, as soon as the holidays are over I’ll strike out. Tomorrow I’ll telephone the
folks to let them know we’ll be there for Christmas. Don’t let me down, I beg you. I can’t go there alone. I won’t. And try to look natural for once, will you? No make-up … no drag. Christ, it’s hard enough to face them under the best of conditions.
You come too, said Mona to Stasia.
Jesus, no! said Stasia.
You’ve got to! said Mona. I couldn’t go through with it without you.
Yes, I chimed in, do come along! With you around we won’t be in danger of falling asleep. Only, do wear a dress or a skirt, will you? And put your hair up in a bun, if you can.
This made them mildly hysterical. What, Stasia acting like a lady? Preposterous!
You’re trying to make a clown of her, said Mona.
I just ain’t a lady, groaned Stasia.
I don’t want you to be anything but your own sweet self, said I. But don’t get yourself up like a horse and buggy, that’s all.
Just as I expected, about three in the morning Christmas day the two of them staggered in dead drunk. The puppet, which they had dragged about with them, looked as if he had taken a beating. I had to undress them and tuck them between the sheets. When I thought they were sound asleep, what must they do but make pipi. Reeling and staggering, they groped their way to the John. In doing so they bumped into tables and chairs, fell down, picked themselves up again, screamed, groaned, grunted, wheezed, all in true dipsomaniac style. There was even a bit of vomiting, for good measure. As they piled into bed again I warned them to hurry and catch what sleep they could. The alarm was set for 9,80, I informed them.
I hardly got a wink of sleep myself; I tossed and fumed the whole night long.
Promptly at 9.80 the alarm went off. It went off extra loud, it seemed to me. At once I was on my feet. There they lay, the two of them, like dead. I pushed and prodded and pulled; I ran from one to the other, slapping them, pulling off the bed clothes, cursing them royally, threatening to belt them if they didn’t stir.
It took almost half an hour to get them on their feet and sufficiently roused not to collapse on my hands.
Take a shower! I yelled. Hurry! I’ll make the coffee.
How can you be so cruel? said Stasia.
Why don’t you telephone and say we’ll come this evening, for supper? said Mona.
I can’t! I yelled back. And I won’t! They expect us at noon, at one sharp, not to-night.
Tell them I’m ill, begged Mona.
I won’t do it. You’re going through with it if it kills you, do you understand?
Over the coffee they told me what they had bought for gifts. It was the gifts that caused them to get drunk, they explained. How was that? Well, in order to raise the money with which to buy the gifts they had had to tag around with some benevolent slob who was on a three day bender. Like that they got stinko. Not that they wanted to. No, they had hoped to duck him soon as the gifts were purchased, but he was a sly old bastard and he wasn’t to be hoodwinked that easy. They were lucky to get home at all, they confessed.
A good yarn and probably half-true. I washed it down with the coffee.
And now, I said, what is Stasia going to wear?
She gave me such a helpless, bewildered look that I was on the point of saying Wear any damned thing you please!
I’ll attend to her, said Mona. Don’t worry. Leave us in peace for a few minutes, won’t you?
O.K. I replied. But one o’clock sharp, remember!
The best thing for me to do, I decided, was to take a walk. I knew it would take a good hour, at least, to get Stasia into presentable shape. Besides, I needed a breath of fresh air.
Remember, I said, as I opened the door to go, you have just one hour, no more. If you’re not ready then we’ll leave as you are.
It was clear and crisp outdoors. A light snow had fallen during the night, sufficient to make it a clean, white Christmas. The streets were almost deserted. Good Christians and bad, they were all gathered about the evergreen tree, unwrapping their gift packages, kissing and hugging one another, struggling with hangovers and pretending that everything was just ducky. (Thank God, it’s over with!)
I strolled leisurely down to the docks to have a look at the ocean going vessels ranged side by side like chained dogs. All quiet as the grave here. The snow, sparkling like mica in the sunlight, clung to the rigging like so much cotton wool. There was something ghostly about the scene.
Heading up toward the Heights, I made for the foreign quarter. Here it was not only ghostly but ghastly. Even the Yuletide spirit had failed to give these shacks and hovels the look of human habitations. Who cared? They were heathens, most of them: dirty Arabs, slit-faced Chinks, Hindus, greasers, niggers … The guy coming toward me, an Arab most likely. Dressed in light dungarees, a battered skull cap and a pair of worn out carpet strippers. Allah be praised! I murmur in passing. A bit farther and I come upon a pair of brawling Mexicans, drunk, much too drunk, to get a blow in. A group of ragged children surround them, egging them on. Sock him! Bust his puss in! And now out of the side door of an old-fashioned saloon a pair of the filthiest looking bitches imaginable stragger into the bright clear sunlight of a clean white Christmas day. The one bends over to pull up her stockings and falls flat on her face; the other looks at her, as if it couldn’t be and stumbles on, one shoe on, one shoe off. Serene in her cock-eyed way, she hums a ditty as she ambles on.
A glorious day, really. So clear, so crisp, so bracing! If only it weren’t Christmas! Are they dressed yet, I wonder. My spirits are reviving. I can face it, I tell myself, if only they don’t make utter fools of themselves. All sorts of fibs are running through my head—yarns I’ll have to spin to put the folks at ease, always worried as they are about what’s happening to us. Like when they ask—Are you writing these days? and I’ll say: Certainly. I’ve turned out dozens of stories. Ask Mona. And Mona, how does she like her job? (I forget. Do they know where she’s working? What did I say last time? ) As for Stasia, I don’t know what the hell I’ll trump up there. An old friend of Mona’s, maybe. Some one she knew at school. An artist.
I walk in, and there’s Stasia with tears in her eyes, trying to squeeze into a pair of high-heeled shoes. Naked to the waist, a white petticoat from Christ knows where, garters dangling, hair a mess.
I’ll never make it, she groans. Why do I have to go?
Mona seems to think it uproariously funny. Clothes are lying all over the floor, and combs and hair pins.
You won’t have to walk, she keeps saying. We’ll take a taxi.
Must I wear a hat too?
We’ll see, dear.
I try to help them but I only make things worse.
Leave us alone, they beg.
So I sit in a corner and watch the proceedings. One eye on the clock. (It’s going on twelve already.)
Listen, I say, don’t try too hard. Just get her hair done up and throw a skirt over her.
They’re trying on ear rings and bracelets. Stop it! I yell. She looks like a Christmas tree.
It’s about twelve-thirty when we saunter out to hail a taxi. None in sight, naturally. Start walking. Stasia is limping. She’s discarded the hat for a beret. Looks almost legitimate now. Rather pathetic too. It’s an ordeal for her.
Finally we manage to run down a cab. Thank God, we’ll be only a few minutes late, I murmur to myself.
In the cab Stasia flicks off her shoes. They get to giggling. Mona wants Stasia to use a dash of lipstick, to make her look more feminine.
If she looks any more feminine, I warn, they’ll think she’s a fake.
How long must we stay? asks Stasia.
I can’t say. We’ll get away just as soon as we can. By seven or eight, I hope.
This evening!
Yes, this evening. Not to-morrow morning.
Jesus! she whistles. I’ll never be able to hold out.
Approaching our destination I tell the cabby to stop at the corner, not in front of the house.
Why? From Mona.
Because.
&n
bsp; The cab pulls up and we pile out. Stasia is in her stocking feet, carrying her shoes.
Put them on! I yell.
There’s a large pine box outside the undertaker’s at the corner. Sit on that and put them on, I command. She obeys like a child. Her feet are wet, of course, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Struggling to get the shoes on, her beret tumbles off and her hair comes undone. Mona frantically endeavors to get it back in shape but the hair pins are nowhere to be found.
Let it go! What’s the difference? I groan.
Stasia gives her head a good shake, like a sportive filly, and her long hair falls down over her shoulders. She tries to adjust the beret but it looks ridiculous now no matter at what angle it’s cocked.
Come on, let’s get going. Carry it!
Is it far? she asks, limping again.
Just half-way down the block. Steady, now.
Thus we march three abreast down The Street of Early Sorrows. A rum trio, as Ulric would say. I can feel the piercing eyes of the neighbors staring at us from behind their stiff, starched curtains. The Millers’ son. That must be his wife. Which one?
My father is standing outside to greet us. A little late, as usual, he says, but in a cheery voice.
Yes, how are you? Merry Christmas! I lean forward to kiss him on the cheek, as I always did.
I present Stasia as an old friend of Mona’s. Couldn’t leave her by herself, I explain.
He gives Stasia a warm greeting and leads us into the house. In the vestibule, her eyes already filled with tears, stands my sister.
Merry Christmas, Lorette! Lorette, this is Stasia.
Lorette kisses Stasia affectionately. Mona! she cries, and how are you.? We thought you’d never come.
Where’s mother? I ask.
In the kitchen.
Presently she appears, my mother, smiling her sad, wistful smile. It’s crystal clear what’s running through her head: Just like always. Always late. Always something unexpected.
She embraces each of us in turn. Sit down, the turkey’s ready. Then, with one of her mocking, malicious smiles, she says: You’ve had breakfast, I suppose?