The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus

by Henry Miller

  So I gave in. At Borough Hall I put away a sandwich and a coffee one, two, three. Then we dove into the subway. He was muttering and mumbling to himself, as of yore. Now and then I caught a distinct phrase. What it sounded like, in the roar of the tube, was—Ah yes, yes, once in a while indulge … spree and pee … a look at the girls and a brawl … not too bloody … ring around the rosie … you know … shake the bugs out of the rug.

  At Sheridan Square we hopped out. No trouble finding a joint. The whole Square seemed to be belching tobacco smoke; from every window there came the blare of jazz, the screams of hysterical females wading in their own urine; fairies, some in uniform, walked arm in arm, as if along the Promenade des Anglais, and in their wake a trail of perfume strong enough to asphyxiate a cat. Here and there, just like in Old England, a drunk lay sprawled out on the sidewalk, hiccoughings, puking, cursing, babbling the usual maudlin fuck-you-all shit. Prohibition was a wonderful thing. It made every one thirsty, rebellious and cantankerous. Especially the female element. Gin brought the harlot out. What filthy tongues they had! Filthier than an English whore’s.

  Inside a stompin’ hell on wheels sort of joint we edged our way to the bar, near enough, at least, to give our order. Gorillas with mugs in their paws were swilling it all over the place. Some were trying to dance, some were squatting as if taking a crap, some rolled their eyes and did the breakdown, some were on all fours under the tables, sniffing like dogs in heat, others were calmly buttoning or unbuttoning their flies. At one end of the bar stood a cop in shirt sleeves and suspenders, his eyes half-closed, his shirt sticking out of his pants. The holster, with the revolver in it, lay on the bar, covered by his hat. (To show that he was on duty, possibly.) Osiecki, observing his helpless state, wanted to take a crack at him. I pulled him away only to see him flop on a table top smeared with swill. A girl put her arms around him and started dancing with him, rooted to the spot, of course. He had a far off look in his eye, as if he were counting sheep.

  We decided to quit the joint. It was too noisy. We went down a side street ornamented with ash cans, empty crates and the garbage of yesteryear. Another joint. The same thing, only worse. Here, so help me God, there were nothing but cocksuckers. The sailors had taken over. Some of them were in skirts. We squeezed our way out amidst jeers and catcalls.

  Strange, said Osiecki, how the Village has changed. One great big ass-hole, ain’t it though?

  What about going uptown?

  He stood a moment and scratched his bean. He was thinking, evidently.

  Yeah, I remember now, he bumbled, switching his hand from his head to his crotch. There’s a nice quiet place I went to once … a dance floor, soft lights … not too expensive either.

  Just then a cab came along. Pulled up right beside us.

  Looking for a place?

  Yeah, said Osiecki, still scratching, still thinking.

  Hop in!

  We did. The cab started off, like a rocket. No address had been given. I didn’t like being whizzed off that way—to a destination unknown.

  I nudged Osiecki. Where are we going?

  It was the driver who answered. Take it easy, you’ll find out. And you can take my word for it, it’s no gyp joint.

  Maybe he’s got something, said Osiecki. He acted as if he had been charmed.

  We pulled up to a loft building in the West Thirties. Not so far away, it flashed through my head, from the French whorehouse where I got my first dose of clap. It was a desolate neighborhood—drugged, frozen, shell-shocked. Cats were prowling about half dead on their feet. I looked the building up and down. Couldn’t hear any soft music coming through the blind windows.

  Ring the bell and tell the doorman I sent you, said the driver, and he handed us his card to present.

  He demanded an extra buck for tipping us off. Osiecki wanted to argue the point. Why? I wondered. What matter an extra buck? Come on, I said, we’re losing time. This looks like the real thing.

  It’s not the place I had in mind, said Osiecki, staring at the departing cab and that extra buck.

  “What’s the difference? It’s your birthday, remember?

  We rang the bell, the doorman appeared, we presented the card. (Just like two suckers from the steppes of Nebraska.) He led us to the elevator and up we went—about eight or ten stories. (No jumping out of windows now!) The door slid open noiselessly, as if greased with glee. For a moment I was stunned. Where were we—in God’s blue heaven? Stars everywhere—walls, ceiling, doors, windows. The Elysian fields, so help me. And these gliding, floating creatures in tulle and gauze, ravenous and diaphanous, all with arms outstretched to welcome us. What could be more enchanting? Houris they were, with the midnight stars for background. Was that music which caught my ear or the rhythmic flutter of seraphic wings? From afar it seemed to come—discreet, subdued, celestial. This, I thought to myself, this is what money can buy, and how wonderful it is to have money, any kind of money, anybody’s money. Money, money … My blue heaven.

  Escorted by two of the most Islamic of the houris—such as Mahomet himself might have chosen—we boopy-dooped our way to the place of merriment, where everything swam in a dusky blue, like the light of Asia coming through a splintered fish bowl. A table was waiting for us; over it was spread a white damask tablecloth in the very center of which stood a vase containing pale pink roses, real ones. To the sheen of the cloth was added the gleaming reflection of the stars above. There were stars in the eyes of the houris too, and their breasts, only lightly veiled, were like golden pods bursting with star juice. Even their talk was starry—vague yet intimate, caressing but remote. Scintillating mush, flavored with the carobs and aloes of the book of etiquette. And in the midst of it I caught the word champagne. Some one was ordering champagne. Champagne? What were we then, dukes? I ran a finger lightly over my frayed collar.

  Of course! Osiecki was saying. Champagne, why not?

  And perhaps a little caviar? murmured the one on the left of him.

  Of course! And caviar too!

  The cigarette girl now appeared, as if from a trap door. Though I still had a few loose cigarettes in my pocket, and though Osiecki smoked only cigars, we bought three packs of gold-tipped cigarettes because the gold matched the stars, the soft lights, the celestial harps playing somewhere behind or around us, God only knew where, it was all so dusky and husky, so discreet, so ultra-ethereal.

  I had only had a taste of the champagne when I heard the two of them ask simultaneously, as if through the larynx of a medium—Won’t you dance?

  Like trained seals we rose to our feet, Osiecki and I. Of course we would dance, why not? Neither of us knew which foot to put forward first. The floor was so highly polished I thought I was moving on castors. They danced slowly, very slowly, their warm, dewy bodies—all pollen and star dust—pressed tight to ours, their limbs undulating like rubber plants. What an intoxicating perfume emanated from their smooth, satiny members! They weren’t dancing, they were swooning in our arms.

  We returned to the table and had some more of the delicious bubbling champagne. They put a few polite questions to us. Had we been in town long? What were we selling? Then—Wouldn’t you like something to eat?

  Instantly, it seemed, a waiter in full dress was at our side. (No snapping of fingers here, no beckoning with head or fingers: everything worked by radar.) A huge menu now stared us in the face. He had put one in each of our mitts, then stood back at attention. The two damosels also surveyed the menu. They were hungry, apparently. To make us more comfortable, they ordered for us as well as themselves. They had a nose for food, these soft-spoken creatures. Delicious looking comestibles, I must say. Oysters, lobsters, more caviar, cheeses, English biscuits, seeded rolls—a most inviting spread.

  Osiecki, I noticed, had a strange look on his face. It grew even stranger when the waiter reappeared with a fresh bucket of champagne (ordered by radar) but which was even more refreshing, more sparkling, than the first magnum.

  Was there anything
else we would like? This from a voice to the rear. A suave, cultured voice trained from the cradle.

  No one spoke. Our mouths were stuffed. The voice retreated into the Pythagorean shadows.

  In the midst of this dainty repast one of the girls excused herself. She had a number to do. She reappeared in the center of the floor under an orange spot-light. A human jack-knife. How she managed it, the contortions, with the lobster, the caviar and the champagne rolling around in her tripe basket, I couldn’t figure out. She was a boa constrictor devouring itself.

  While this performance was going on the one at the table plied us with questions. Always in that soft, subdued, milk and honey voice, but each question more direct, more succinct, I observed. What she was gunning for, apparently, was the key to our wealth. What did we do, precisely, for a living? Her eyes wandered tellingly over our apparel. There was a discrepancy which intrigued her, if one could put it that way. Or was it that we were too blissfully content, too heedless of the mundane factors which entered into the situation? It was Osiecki, his grin (non-committal), his casual, off-hand replies that nettled her.

  I devoted my attention to the contortionist. Let Osiecki handle the question-and-answer department!

  The act had now reached that crucial point where the orgasm had to be simulated. In a refined way, of course.

  I had the goblet of champagne in one hand and a caviar sandwich in the other. Everything was proceeding smoothly, even the orgasm on the floor. Same stars, same dusky blue, same smothered sex from the orchestra, same waiter, same tablecloth. Suddenly it was over. A faint sound of applause, another bow, and here she was returning to the festive board. More champagne, no doubt, more caviar, more drum sticks. Ah, if only life could be lived this way twenty-four hours of the day! I was perspiring freely now. Had an urge to remove my tie. (Mustn’t do that! said a wee small voice inside me.)

  She was standing at the table now. Won’t you excuse me? she said. I’ll be back in a moment.

  Naturally we excused her. After a number like that she undoubtedly had to make wee-wee, powder her face, freshen up a bit. The food would keep. (We weren’t wolves.) And the champagne. And us.

  The music started up again, somewhere in the blue of midnight, discreet, intimate, a haunting, whispering appeal. Spectral music wafted from the upper reaches of the gonads. I half rose to my feet and moved my lips. To my surprise she didn’t budge, our lone angel. Said she wasn’t in the mood. Osiecki tried his charm. Same reply. Even more laconic. The food too had lost its appeal for her. She lapsed into a dead silence.

  Osiecki and I continued to eat and drink. The waiters had ceased to bother us. No more buckets of champagne appeared out of nowhere. The tables about us were gradually deserted. The music died away completely.

  The silent one now rose abruptly and dashed off, without even excusing herself.

  The bill will be coming soon, Osiecki remarked, almost as if to himself.

  Then what? I said. Have you enough on you to pay?

  That depends, he said, smiling through his teeth.

  Sure enough, just as he had said, the waiter in full dress now appeared, the bill in his hand. Osiecki took it, looked at it long and lingeringly, added it aloud several times, then said to the waiter: Where can I find the manager?

  Just follow me, said the waiter, his expression unchanged.

  I’ll be back in a minute, said Osiecki, waving the bill like an important dispatch from the front.

  In a minute or in an hour, what difference did it make? I was a partner in the crime. No exit. The jig was up.

  I was trying to figure out how much they had soaked us. Whatever it was, I knew Osiecki didn’t have it. I sat there like a gopher in his hole, waiting for the trap to be sprung. I got thirsty. I put an arm out to reach for the champagne when another waiter, in shirt sleeves, came along and started clearing the table. He grabbed the bottle first. Then he cleared away the remnants. Not so much as a crumb did he overlook. Finally he snatched the table-cloth away too.

  For a moment I wondered if some one would whisk the chair from under me—or put a broom in my hand and command me to get to work.

  When you’re stumped take a leak. A good idea, I told myself. That way, maybe I’d catch a glimpse of Osiecki.

  I found the toilet at the end of the hall, just beyond the elevator. The stars had faded out. No more blue heaven. Just plain, everyday reality—with a growth of beard. On the way back I caught a glimpse of four or five chaps huddled together in a corner. They looked terror-stricken. Towering above them was a hulk of a brute in uniform. He had all the appearance of an accomplished bruiser.

  No sign of Osiecki, however.

  I returned to the table and sat down. I was even more thirsty now. A glass of plain tap water would have satisfied me, but I didn’t dare ask. The blue dusk had faded to cinders. I could distinguish objects more clearly now. It was like the end of a dream, where the edges fray out.

  What’s he doing? I kept asking myself. Is he trying to talk his way out?

  I shuddered to think what would happen to us if that monster in the uniform should take us in tow.

  It was a good half hour before Osiecki reappeared. He looked none the worse for the grueling I suspected he had undergone. In fact, he was half smiling, half chuckling.

  Let’s go, he said. It’s all settled.

  I sprang to my feet. How much? I asked, as we scurried to the cloak room.

  Guess!

  I can’t.

  Almost a hundred, he said.

  No!

  Wait, he said. Wait till we get outside.

  The place looked like a coffin factory now. Only spectres were roaming about. In full sunshine it probably looked worse. I thought of the guys I had seen huddled in the corner. I wondered how they would look—after the treatment.

  It was dawning when we stepped outdoors. Nothing in sight except over-stuffed garbage cans. Even the cats had disappeared. We headed swiftly for the nearest subway station.

  Now tell me, I said, how in hell did you manage it?

  He chuckled. Then he said: It didn’t cost us a penny.

  He began explaining what took place in the manager’s office. For a crazy man, I thought to myself, you’re as adroit as a quirt!

  Here’s what happened … After he had fished out what cash he had on him—a mere twelve or thirteen dollars—he offered to write a check for the balance. The manager, of course, laughed in his face. He asked Osiecki if he had noticed anything on his way to the office. Osiecki knew damned well what he meant. You mean those guys in the corner? Yeah, they too had offered to pay with rubber checks. He pointed to the watches and rings lying on his desk. Osiecki understood that too. Then, innocent as a lamb, he suggested that they hold the two of us until the banks opened up. A phone call would verify whether his check was good or not. A. grilling followed. Where did he work? At what? How long had he lived in New York? Was he married? Did he have a savings account as well? And so on.

  What really turned the tide in his favor, Osiecki thought, was the calling card which he presented to the manager. That and the check book, both of which bore the name of a prominent architect, one of Osiecki’s friends. From then on the pressure weakened. They handed him his check book and Osiecki promptly wrote out a check—including a generous tip for the waiter! Funny, he said, but that little touch—the tip—impressed them. It would have made me suspicious. He grinned, the usual one, plus a little spittle this time. That’s all there was to it.

  But what will your friend say when he discovers that you signed his name to a check?

  Nothing, was the calm reply. He’s dead. It happened just two days ago.

  Naturally, I was going to ask him how he happened to be in possession of his friend’s check book, but then I said to myself—Shit! A guy who’s nuts and cunning at the same time can explain anything. Forget it!

  So I said instead: You know your onions, don’t you?

  Have to, he replied. In this town, anyway.


  Rolling through the tube he leaned over and shouted in my deaf ear—Nice birthday party, wasn’t it? Did you like the champagne? Those guys were simple … anybody could take them.

  At Borough Hall, where we rose to the air again, he stood looking at the sky, his face one broad beam of pleasure and contentment. Cockadoodledo! he crowed and then he jingled the coins in his pocket. What about breakfast at Joe’s?

  Fine, I said. Bacon and eggs would go good with me.

  As we were stepping inside the restaurant—So you think it was pretty clever of me, do you? That was nothing. You should have known me in Montreal. When I ran the whorehouse, I mean.

  Suddenly I panicked. Money … who had the money? I wasn’t going through that performance a second time.

  What’s eating you? he said. Sure I’ve got money.

  I mean cash. Didn’t you tell me you doled out the bills you had in your pocket?

  Shucks, he said, they gave ‘em back to me when I signed the check.

  I sucked my breath in. Cripes, I said, that beats everything. You’re not clever, you’re a wizard.

  Our talk is of nothing but Paris now. Paris will solve all our problems. Meanwhile every one must get busy. Stasia will turn out puppets and death masks; Mona will sell her blood, seeing as mine is worthless.

  Meanwhile, busy leeches that we are, new suckers are offering to be bled. One of them is an Indian, a Cherokee. A no good Indian—always drunk and nasty. When drunk, however, he throws his money away … Some one else has promised to pay the rent each month. He left the first installment in an envelope, under the gate, while we were sound asleep a few nights ago. Then there is a Jewish surgeon, also of a mind to help, who is a judo expert. Rather odd for one of his standing, it strikes me. He’s good for a last minute touch. And then there’s the ticket chopper whom they’ve resurrected. All he asks in return for his offerings is an occasional sandwich on which one of them must make a little pipi.