by Henry Miller
Of course, mother. Hours ago.
She gives me a look which says—I know you’re lying—and turns on her heel.
Mona meanwhile is handing out the gifts.
You shouldn’t have done it, says Lorette. It’s a phrase she’s picked up from my mother. It’s a fourteen pound turkey, she adds. Then to me: The minister wants to be remembered to you, Henry.
I cast a quick glance at Stasia to see how she’s taking it. There’s only the faintest trace of a good-natured smile on her face She seems genuinely touched.
Wouldn’t you like a glass of Port first? asks my father. He pours out three full glasses and hands them to us.
How about yourself? says Stasia.
I gave it up long ago, he replies. Then, raising an empty glass, he says—Prosit!
Thus it began, the Christmas dinner. Merry, merry Christmas, everybody, horses, mules, Turks, alcoholics, deaf, dumb, blind, crippled, heathen and converted. Merry Christmas! Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to the Highest! Peace on earth—and may ye bugger and slaughter one another until Kingdom Come!
(That was my silent toast.)
As usual, I began by choking on my own saliva. A hangover from boyhood days. My mother sat opposite me, as she always did, carving knife in hand. On my right sat my father, whom I used to glance at out of the corner of my eye, apprehensive lest in his drunken state he would explode over one of my mother’s sarcastic quips. He had been on the wagon now for many a year, but still I choked, even without a morsel of food in my mouth. Everything that was said had been said, and in exactly the same way, in exactly the same tone, a thousand times. My responses were the same as ever, too. I spoke as if I were twelve years old and had just learned to recite the catechism by heart. To be sure, I no longer mentioned, as I did when a boy, such horrendous names as Jack London, Karl Marx, Balzac or Eugene V. Debs. I was slightly nervous now because, though I myself knew all the taboos by heart, Mona and Stasia were still free spirits and who knows, they might behave as such. Who could say at what moment Stasia might come up with an outlandish name—like Randinsky, Marc Chagall, Zadkine, Brancusi, or Lipschitz? Worse, she might even invoke such names as Ramakrishna, Swami Vivekananda or Gautama the Buddha. I prayed with all my heart that, even in her cups, she would not mention such names as Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman or Prince Kropotkin.
Fortunately, my sister was busy reeling off the names of news commentators, broadcasters, crooners, musical comedy stars, neighbors and relatives, the whole roll call connected and interconnected with a spate of catastrophes which invariably caused her to weep, drool, dribble, sniffle and snuffle.
She’s doing very well, our dear Stasia, I thought to myself. Excellent table manners too. For how long?
Little by little, of course, the heavy food plus the good Moselle began to tell on them. They had had little sleep, the two of them. Mona was already struggling to suppress the yawns which were rising like waves.
Said the old man, aware of the situation: I suppose you got to bed late?
Not so very, said I brightly. We never get to bed before midnight, you know.
I suppose you write at night, said my mother.
I jumped. Usually she never made the slightest reference to my scribbling, unless it was accompanied by a reproof or a sign of disgust.
Yes, I said, that’s when I do my work. It’s quiet at night. I can think better.
And during the day?
I was going to say Work, of course! but realized immediately that to mention a job would only complicate matters. So I said: I generally go to the library … research work.
Now for Stasia. What did she do?
To my utter amazement, my father blurted out: She’s an artist, any one can see that!
Oh? said my mother, as if the very sound of the word frightened her. And does it pay?
Stasia smiled indulgently. Art was never rewarding … in the beginning … she explained most graciously. Adding that fortunately her guardians sent her little sums from time to time.
I suppose you have a studio? fired the old man.
Yes, she said. I have a typical garret over in the Village.
Here Mona took over, to my distress, and in her usual way began elaborating. I shut her off as best I could because the old man, who was swallowing it hook, line and sinker, intimated that he would look Stasia up—in her studio—some day. He liked to see artists at work, he said.
I soon diverted the conversation to Homer Winslow, Bougereau, Ryder and Sisley. (His favorites) Stasia lifted her eyebrows at the mention of these incongruous names. She looked even more astonished when the old man started reeling off the names of famous American painters whose works, as he explained, used to hang in the tailor shop. (That is, before his predecessor sold out.) For Stasia’s sake, since the game was on, I reminded him of Ruskin … of The Stones of Venice, the only book he had ever read. Then I got him to reminiscing about P. T. Barnum, Jenny Lind and other celebrities of his day.
During a lull Lorette remarked that an operetta would be given over the radio at three-thirty … would we like to hear it?
But it was now time for the plum pudding to be served—with that delicious hard sauce—and Lorette forgot, momentarily, about the operetta.
The mention of three-thirty reminded me that we still had a long session to put in. I wondered how on earth we would manage to keep the conversation going until it was time to go. And when would it be possible to take leave without seeming to rush off? Already my scalp was itching.
Musing thus, I became more and more aware that Mona and Stasia were heavy with sleep. It was obvious that they could scarcely keep their eyes open. What subject could I bring up which would excite them without at the same time causing them to lose their heads? Something trivial, yet not too trivial. (Wake up, you louts!) Something, perhaps, about the ancient Egyptians? Why them? To save my life, I couldn’t think of anything better. Try! Try!
Suddenly I realized that all was silence. Even Lorette had clammed up. How long had this been going on? Think fast! Anything to break the deadlock. What, Rameses again? Fuck Rameses! Think quick, idiot! Think! Anything!
Did I ever tell you…? I began.
Excuse me, said Mona, rising heavily and knocking the chair over as she did so, but do you mind if I were to lie down for just a few minutes? I’ve got a splitting headache.
The couch was only a foot or two away. Without further ado she sank on to it and closed her eyes.
(For Christ’s sake, don’t snore immediately!)
She must be worn out, said my father. He looked at Stasia. Why don’t you take a little snooze too? It will do you good.
She needed no coaxing, Stasia. In a jiffy she stretched herself out beside the lifeless Mona.
Get a blanket, said my mother to Lorette. That thin one upstairs in the closet.
The couch was a bit too narrow to hold the two of them comfortably. They turned and twisted, groaned, giggled, yawned disgracefully. Suddenly, bango! the springs gave way and on to the floor tumbled Stasia. To Mona it was excruciatingly funny. She laughed and laughed. Much too loudly to suit me. But then, how could she know that this precious couch which had held up nigh on to fifty years might have lasted another ten or twenty years with proper care? In our house one didn’t laugh callously over such a mishap.
Meanwhile my mother, stiff as she was, had got down on hands and knees to see how and where the couch had given way. (The sofa, they called it.) Stasia lay where she had fallen, as if waiting for instructions. My mother moved round and about her much as a beaver might work about a fallen tree. Lorette now appeared with the blanket. She watched the performance as if stupefied. (Nothing like this should ever have happened.) The old man, on the other hand, never any good at fixing anything, had gone to the back yard in search of bricks. Where’s the hammer? my mother was saying. The sight of my father with an armful of bricks roused her scorn. She was going to fix it properly—and immediately.
Later, said the old man. They want
to snooze now. With that he got down on all fours and shoved the bricks under the sagging springs.
Stasia now raised herself from the floor, just sufficiently to slide back on to the couch, and turned her face to the wall. They lay spoon fashion, peaceful as exhausted chipmunks. I took my seat at the table and watched the ritual of clearing the table. I had witnessed it a thousand times, and the manner of doing it never varied. In the kitchen it was the same. First things first…
What cunning bitches! I thought to myself. It was they who should be clearing the table and washing the dishes. A headache! As simple as that. Now I would have to face the music alone. Better that way, maybe, since I knew all the moves. Now it wouldn’t matter what came up for discussion—dead cats, last year’s cockroaches, Mrs. Schwabenhof’s ulcers, last Sunday’s sermon, carpet sweepers, Weber and Fields or the lay of the last minstrel. I would keep my eyes open no matter if it lasted till midnight. (How long would they sleep, the sots?) If they felt rested on waking perhaps they wouldn’t mind too much how long we stayed. I knew we would have to have a bite before going. One couldn’t sneak away at five or six o’clock. Not on Christmas day. Nor could we get away without gathering around the tree and singing that ghastly song—O Tannenbaum! And that was sure to be followed by a complete catalogue of all the trees we ever had and how they compared with one another, of how eager I was, when a boy, to see what gifts were piled up for me beneath the Christmas tree. (Never any mention of Lorette as a girl.) What a wonderful boy I was! Such a reader, such a good piano player! And the bikes I had and the roller skates. And the air rifle. (No mention of my revolver.) Was it still in the drawer where the knives and forks were kept? That was a really bad moment she gave us, my mother, the night she went for the revolver. Fortunately there wasn’t a cartridge in the barrel. She probably knew as much. Just the same…
No, nothing had changed. At the age of twelve the clock had stopped. No matter what any one whispered in their ears, I was always that darling little boy who would one day grow up to be a full-fledged merchant tailor. All that nonsense about writing … I’d get over it sooner or later. And this bizarre new wife … she’d fade away too, in time. Eventually I would come to my senses. Every one does, sooner or later. They weren’t worried that, like dear old Uncle Paul, I would do myself in. I wasn’t the sort. Besides, I had a head on me. Sound at bottom, so to say. Wild and wayward, nothing more. Read too much … had too many worthless friends. They would take care not to mention the name but soon, I knew, would come the question, always furtively, always in smothered tones, eyes right, eyes left—And how is the little one? Meaning my daughter. And I who hadn’t the slightest idea, who wasn’t even sure that she was still alive, would reply in a calm, matter of fact way: Oh, she’s fine, yes. Yes? my mother would say, a And have you heard from them? Them was by way of including my ex-wife. Indirectly, I would reply. Stanley tells me about them now and then. And how is he, Stanley? Just fine … How I wish I might talk to them about Johnny Paul. But that they would think strange, very strange. Why, I hadn’t seen Johnny Paul since I vas seven or eight. True enough. But what they never suspected, particularly you, my dear mother, was that all these years I had kept his memory alive. Yes, as the years roll on, Johnny Paul stands out brighter and brighter. Sometimes, and this is beyond all your imagining, sometimes I think of him as a little god. One of the very few I have ever known. You don’t remember, I suppose, that Johnny Paul had the softest, gentlest voice a man could have? You don’t know that, though I was only a tike at the time, I saw through his eyes what no one else ever revealed to me? He was just the coal man’s son to you: an immigrant boy, a dirty little Italian who didn’t speak English too well but who tipped his hat politely whenever you passed. How could you possibly dream that such a specimen should be as a god to your darling son? Did you ever know anything that passed through the mind of your wayward son? You approved neither of the books he read, nor the companions he chose, nor the girls he fell in love with, nor the games he played, nor the things he wanted to be. You always knew better, didn’t you? But you didn’t press down too hard. Your way was to pretend not to hear, not to see. I would get over all this foolishness in due time. But I didn’t! I got worse each year. So you pretended that at twelve the clock had stopped. You simply couldn’t recognize your son for what he was. You chose the me which suited you. The twelve year old. After that the deluge…
And next year, at this same ungodly season of the year, you will probably ask me all over again if I am still writing and I will say yes and you will ignore it or treat it like a drop of wine that was accidentally spilled on your best tablecloth. You don’t want to know why I write, nor would you care if I told you why. You want to nail me to the chair, make me listen to the shit-mouthed radio. You want me to sit and listen to your inane gossip about neighbors and relatives. You would continue to do this to me even if I were rash enough, or bold enough, to inform you in the most definite terms that everything you talk about is so much horse shit to me. Here I sit and already I’m in it up to the neck, this shit. Maybe I’ll try a new tack—pretend that I’m all agog, all a-twitter. What’s the name of that operetta? Beautiful voice. Just beautiful! Ask them to sing it again … and again … and again! Or I may sneak upstairs and fish out those old Caruso records. He had such a lovely voice, didn’t he now? (Yes, thank you, I will have a cigar.) But don’t offer me another drink, please. My eyes are gathering sand; it’s only age old rebellion that keeps me awake at all. What I wouldn’t give to steal upstairs to that tiny, dingy hall bedroom without a chair, a rug or a picture, and sleep the sleep of the dead! How many, many times, when I threw myself on that bed, I prayed that I would never more open my eyes! Once, do you remember, my dear mother, you threw a pail of cold water over me because I was a lazy, good for nothing bum. It’s true, I had been lying there for forty-eight hours. But was it laziness that kept me pinned to the mattress? What you didn’t know, mother, was that it was heartbreak. You would have laughed that off, too, had I been fool enough to confide in you. That horrible, horrible little bedroom! I must have died a thousand deaths there. But I also had dreams and visions there. Yes, I even prayed in that bed, with huge wet tears rolling down my cheeks. (How I wanted her, and only her!) And when that failed, when at long last I was ready and able to rise and face the world again, there was only one dear companion I could turn to: my bike. Those long, seemingly endless spins, just me and myself, driving the bitter thoughts into my arms and legs, pushing, plugging away, slithering over the smooth graveled paths like the wind, but to no avail. Every time I dismounted her image was there, and with it the backwash of pain, doubt, fear. But to be in the saddle, and not at work, that was indeed a boon. The bike was part of me, it responded to my wishes. Nothing else ever did. No, my dear blind heartless parents, nothing you ever said to me, nothing you did for me, ever gave me the joy and the comfort which that racing machine did. If only I could take you apart, as I did my bike, and oil and grease you lovingly!
Wouldn’t you like to take a walk with father?
It was my mother’s voice which roused me from my reverie. How I had drifted to the arm-chair I couldn’t remember. Maybe I had snoozed a bit without knowing it. Anyway, at the sound of her voice I jumped.
Rubbing my eyes, I observed that she was proffering me a cane. It was my grandfather’s. Solid ebony with a silver handle in the form of a fox—or perhaps it was a marmoset.
In a jiffy I was on my feet and bundling into my overcoat. My father stood ready, flourishing his ivory-knobbed walking stick. The air will brace you up, he said.
Instinctively we headed for the cemetery. He liked to walk through the cemetery, not that he was so fond of the dead but because of the trees and flowers, the birds, and the memories which the peace of the dead always evoked. The paths were dotted with benches where one could sit and commune with Nature, or the god of the underworld, if one liked. I didn’t have to strain myself to keep up conversation with my father; he was used to my evasive, laco
nic replies, my weak subterfuges. He never tried to pump me. That he had some one beside him was enough. On the way back we passed the school I had attended as a boy. Opposite the school was a row of mangy-looking flats, all fitted out with shop-fronts as alluring as a row of decayed teeth. Tony Marella had been reared in one of these flats. For some reason my father always expected me to become enthusiastic at the mention of Tony Marella’s name. He never failed to inform me, when mentioning the name, of each new rise on the ladder of fame which this dago’s son was making. Tony had a big job now in some branch of the Civil Service; he was also running for office, as a Congressman or something. Hadn’t I read about it? It would be a good thing, he thought, if I were to look Tony up some time … never could tell what it might lead to.
Still nearer home we passed the house belonging to the Gross family. The two Gross boys were also doing well, he said. One was a captain in the army, the other a commodore. Little did I dream, as I listened to him ramble on, that one of them would one day become a general. (The idea of a general born to that neighborhood, that street, was unthinkable.)
What ever became of the crazy guy who lived up the street? I asked. You know, where the stables were.
He had a hand bitten off by a horse and gangrene set in.
You mean he’s dead?
A long time, said my father. In fact, they’re all dead, all the brothers. One was struck by lightning, another slipped on the ice and broke his skull … Oh yes, and the other had to be put in a strait-jacket … died of a haemorrhage soon after. The father lived the longest. He was blind, you remember. Toward the end he became a bit dotty. Did nothing but make mouse-traps.
Why, I asked myself, had I never thought of going from house to house, up and down this street, and writing a chronicle of the lives of its denizens? What a book it would have made! The Book of Horrors. Such familiar horrors, too. Those everyday tragedies which never quite make the front page. De Maupassant would have been in his element here…