by Henry Miller
Things happened to Woodruff in quick succession. First of all he lost his job at the bank. Then Ida ran off with one of his best friends. When he discovered that she had been sleeping with the fellow for a year before she ran off, he grew so despondent that he went on a bat which lasted for a year. After that he was knocked down by a car and his brain trepanned. Then his sister went crazy, setting fire to the house and burning her own children alive.
He couldn't understand why these things should happen to him, Bill Woodruff, who had never done anybody any harm.
Now and then I would run into him on Broadway and we would have a little chat standing on a street corner. He never gave any hint that he suspected me of having tinkered with his beloved Ida. He spoke of her bitterly now, as a thankless slut who had never showed a spark of feeling. But it was evident he still loved her. However, he had taken up with another girl, a manicurist, not so attractive as Ida, but loyal and trustworthy, as he put it. «I want you to meet her some time,» said he. I promised I would—some time. And then, as I was parting from him, I said: «What did become of Ida, do you know?»
«She's on the stage,» he said. «Where she belongs, I guess. They must have taken her on her looks— she never had any talent that I could see.»
Ida Verlaine. I was still thinking of her and of those free and easy days in the past as I took up my post at the entrance to the dance hall. I had a few minutes to kill. I had forgotten about the money in my pocket. I was still riveted to the past. Wondered whether I would stop by the theatre one day and have a look at Ida from the third row front-Or go up to her dressing room and have a little tete-a-tete while she made up. I wondered if her body were still as white as ever. Her black hair was long then and hung over her shoulders. She really was a bewitching piece of cunt. Pure cunt, that's what she was. And Woodruff so bewildered by it all, so innocent, so worshipful. I remember his saying once that he used to kiss her ass every night, to show her what a devoted slave he was. It's a wonder she didn't pee on him ever. He deserved that, the imbecile!
And then I thought of something which made me laugh. Men always think that to own a big cock is one of life's greatest boons. They think you have only to shake it at a woman and she's yours. Well, if anybody had a big cock it was Bill Woodruff. It was a veritable horse cock. I remember the first time I saw it—I could scarcely believe my eyes. Ida should have been his slave, if all that stuff about big cocks be true. It impressed her all right all right, but the wrong way. She was scared stiff. It froze her up. And the more he pushed and plugged, the smaller she grew. He might just as well have fucked her between the teats, or in the arm-pits. She would have enjoyed that more, no doubt about it. Woodruff never had such ideas, though. He would have thought them degrading. You can't ask the woman you idolize to let you fuck her between the teats. How he got his nookie I never inquired. But that ass-licking ritual made me smile. It's tough to be crazy about a woman and then find that nature has played you a mean trick.
Ida Verlaine. I had a hunch I'd be looking her up soon. It wouldn't be the same smooth-fitting cunt any more, no use kidding oneself. By this time it had been well reamed, if I knew Ida. Still, if there was any juice left, if her ass had that smooth, slippery feel, it would be worth having another go at it.
I began to have an erection thinking about her.
I waited around for a half hour or more, but no sign of Mona. I decided to go upstairs and inquire. Learned that she had gone home early—with a sick headache.
9
It was only the next evening, after dinner, that I found out why she had left the dance hall early. She had received a message from home and had rushed out to see her parents. I didn't press her to talk, knowing how secretive she was about this other life. For some reason, however, she was anxious to get it off her chest. As usual, she circled about with mysterious swoops. It was difficult to make head or tail of her story. All I could gather was that they were in distress—and by «they» she meant the whole family, including her three brothers, and her sister-in-law.
«Do they all live under the same roof?» I asked innocently.
«That's neither here nor there,» she said, strangely irritated.
I said nothing for a while. Then I ventured to ask about her sister whom she had once told me was even more beautiful than herself—«only very nor-mal», as she put it.
«Didn't you say she was married?»
«Yes, of course she is. What's that got to do with it?»
«With what?» I asked, getting a little peeved now myself.
«Well, what are we talking about?»»
I laughed. «That's what I want to know. What is it? What are you trying to tell me?»
«You don't listen. My sister—I suppose you don't believe I have a sister?»
«Why do you say that? Of course I believe you. Only I can't believe she's more beautiful than you.»
«Well she is, believe it or not,» she snapped. «I despise her. It's not jealousy, if that's what you're thinking. I despise her because she has no imagination. She sees what's happening and she doesn't lift a finger. She's absolutely selfish.»
«I suppose,» I began gently, «that it's the same old problem—they want your help. Well, maybe!....»
«You! What can you do? Please, Val, don't start talking that way.» She laughed hysterically. «God, it reminds me of my brothers. They all make suggestions—and nobody does anything.»
«But, Mona, I'm not talking in the air. !...»
She turned on me almost fiercely. «You've got your wife and daughter to look after, haven't you? I don't want to hear anything about your help. This is my problem. Only I don't know why I have to do everything alone. The boys could do something if they wanted to. God, I supported them for years. I've supported the whole family—and now they're asking more of me. I can't do any more. It isn't fair...»
There was a silence and then she continued. «My father is a sick man—I don't expect anything of him. Besides, he's the only one I care about. If it weren't for him I'd turn my back on them—I'd walk off and leave them flat.»
«Well, what about your brothers?» I asked. What's holding them back?»
«Nothing but laziness,» she said. «I've spoiled them. I led them to believe that they were helpless.»
«Do you mean that nobody is working—not any of them?»
«Oh yes, now and then one of them gets a job for a few weeks and then quits for some silly reason. They know I'll always be there to rescue them.»
«I can't go on living this way!» she burst out. «I won't let them destroy my life. I want to be with you—and they're pulling me away. They don't care what I do so long as I bring them money. Money, money. God, how I hate to hear the word!»
«But Mona,» I said gently, «I've got some money for you. Yes, I have. Look!»
I extracted the two fifty dollar bills and placed them in her hand.
To my amazement she began to laugh, a weird, three-pronged laugh which became more and more uncontrollable. I put my arms around her. «Easy, Mona, easy... you're terribly upset.»
The tears came to her eyes. «I can't help it, Val,» she said weakly, «it reminds me so much of my father. He used to do the same thing. Just when everything was blackest he would turn up with flowers or some crazy gift. You're just like him. You're dreamers, both of you. That's why I love you.» She flung her arms around me passionately and began to sob. «Don't tell me where you got it,» she muttered. «I don't care. I don't care if you stole it. I'd steal for you, you know that, don't you?
Val, they don't deserve the money. I want you to buy something for yourself—. Or», she added impulsively, «get something for the little one. Get something beautiful, something wonderful— that she'll always remember.»
«Val,» she said, trying to collect herself, «you trust me, don't you? You won't ever ask me things I can't answer, will you? Promise me!»
We were seated in the big arm chair. I held her in my lap, smoothing down her hair by way of answer.
&nbs
p; «You see, Val, if you hadn't come along, I don't know what would have happened to me. Until I met you I felt—well, almost as if my life didn't belong to me. I didn't care what I did, if only they would leave me in peace. I can't bear to have them ask for things. I feel humiliated. They're all helpless, every one of them. Except my sister. She could do things—she's a very practical, level-headed sort. But she wants to play the lady. 'It's enough to have one wild one in the family,' she says, meaning me. I've disgraced them, that's what she thinks. And she wants to punish me, by making me submit to more and more indignities. She takes a fiendish delight in seeing me bring the money that no one lifts a finger to raise. She makes all sorts of foul insinuations. I could kill her. And my father doesn't seem to realize the situation at all. He thinks she's sweet—angelic. He wouldn't let her make the least sacrifice—she's too delicate to be exposed to the brutal contamination of the world. Besides, she's a wife and a mother. But I....» Her eyes became filled with tears again. «I don't know what they think I'm made of. I'm strong, that's all they think. I can stand anything. I'm the wild one. God, sometimes I think they're insane, the whole pack of them. Where do they think I get the money? They don't care... they don't dare to ask.»
«Will your father ever get well?» I asked after a long silence.
«I don't know, Val.»
«If he were dead,» she added, «I'd never go near the others again. They could starve to death, I wouldn't move a muscle.»
«You know,» she said, «you don't resemble him at all, physically, and yet you're so much alike. You're weak and tender, like him. But you weren't spoiled, as he was. You know how to take care of yourself, when you want to—but he never learned. He was always helpless. My mother sucked the blood out of him. She treated him like she treats me. Anything to have her own way.... I wish you could meet him—before he dies. I've often dreamed of it.» «We probably will meet some day,» said I, though I didn't think it at all likely.
«You'd adore him, Val. He has such a wonderful sense of humor. He's a great story teller, too. I think he would have been a writer, if he hadn't married my mother.»
She got up and began to make her toilette, still talking in a fond way about her father and the life he had known in Vienna and other places. It was getting time to leave for the dance hall.
Suddenly she turned abruptly away from the mirror and said: «Val, why don't you write in your spare time? You always wanted to write—why don't you do it? You don't need to call for me so often. You know, I'd much rather come home and find you working at the typewriter. You aren't to stay at that job all your life, are you?»
She came over to me and put her arms around me. «Let me sit in your lap,» she said. Listen, dear Val... you mustn't sacrifice yourself for me. It's bad enough that one of us does it. I want you to free yourself. I know you're a writer—and I don't care how long it takes until you become known. I want to help you... Val, you're not listening.» She nudged me gently. «What are you thinking of?»
«Oh, nothing,» I said. «I was just dreaming.»
«Val, do something, please! Don't let's go on this way. Look at this place! How did we ever get here? What are we doing here? We're a little mad too, you and I. Val, do start in—to-night, yes? I like you when you're moody. I like to think that you have thoughts about other things. I like it when you say crazy things. I wish I could think that way. I'd give anything to be a writer. To have a mind, to dream, to get lost in other people's problems, to think of something else beside work and money.... You remember that story you wrote for me once—about Tony and Joey? Why don't you write something for me again? Just for me. Val, we must try to do something... we must find a way out. Do you hear?»
I had heard only too well. Her words were running in my head like a refrain.
I jumped up, as if to brush the cobwebs away. I caught her by the waist and held her at arm's length. «Mona, things are going to be different soon. Very soon. I feel it.... Let me walk you to the station—I need a breath of air.»
I could see that she was slightly disappointed; she had hoped for something more positive.
«Mona,» I said, as we walked rapidly down the street, «one doesn't change all at once, like that! I do want to write, yes, I'm sure of it. But I've got to collect myself. I don't ask to have it easy, but I need a little tranquillity. I can't switch from one thing to another so easily. I hate my job just as much as you hate yours. And I don't want another job: I want a complete break. I want to be with myself for a while, see how it feels. I hardly know myself, living the way I do. I'm engulfed. I know all about others—and nothing about myself. I know only that I feel. I feel too much. I'm drained dry. I wish I could have days, weeks, months, just to think. Now I think from moment to moment. It's a luxury, to think.»
She squeezed my hand, as if to tell me she understood.
«When I get back to the house I'm going to sit down and try to think. Maybe I'll fall asleep. It seems as though I were geared up only for action. I've become a machine.»
«Do you know what I think sometimes?» I went on. «I think that if I had two or three quiet days of just sheer thinking I'd upset everything. Fundamentally everything is cock-eyed. It's that way because we don't dare to let ourselves think. I ought to go the office one day and blow out Spivak's brains. That's the first step....»
We had come to the elevated station.
«Don't think about such things just now,» she said. «Sit down and dream. Dream something wonderful for me. Don't think about those ugly little people. Think of me!»
She ran up the steps lightly, waving goodbye.
I was strolling leisurely back to the house, dreaming of another, richer life, when suddenly I remembered, or thought I remembered, her leaving the two fifty dollar bills on the mantelpiece under the vase filled with artificial flowers. I could see them sticking out half-way, just as she had placed them. I broke into a trot. I knew that if Kronski saw them he would filch them. He would do it not because he was dishonest but to torture me.
As I drew near the house I thought of Crazy Sheldon. I even began to imitate his way of speaking, though I was out of breath from running. I was laughing to myself as I opened the door.
The room was empty and the money was gone. I knew it would be thus. I sat down and laughed again. Why hadn't I said anything to Mona about Monahan? Why hadn't I mentioned anything to her about the theatre? Usually I spilled things out immediately, but this time something had held me back, some instinctive distrust of Monahan's intentions.
I was on the point of calling up the dance hall to see if by chance Mona had taken the money without my noticing it. I got up to go to the telephone but on the way I changed my mind. The impulse seized me to explore the house a bit. I wandered to the rear of the house and descended the stairs. After a few steps I came upon a large room with blinding lights in which the laundry was drying. There was a bench along one wall, as in a school room, and on it sat an old man with a white beard and a velvet skull cap. He was bent forward, his head resting on the back of his hand, supported by a cane. He seemed to be gazing blankly into space.
He gave a sign of recognition with his eyes; his body remained immobile. I had seen many members of the family but never him. I greeted him in German, thinking he would prefer that to English which no one seemed to speak in this queer house.
«You can talk English if you like,» he said, in a thick accent. He gazed straight ahead into space, as before.
«Am I disturbing you?»
«Not at all.»
I thought I ought to tell him who I was. «My name is...»
«And I,» said he, without waiting to hear my name, «am Dr. Onirifick's father. He never told you about me, I suppose?»
«No,» I said, «he never did. But then I hardly ever see him.»
«He's a very busy man. Too busy perhaps....»
«But he will be punished one day,» he continued. «One must not murder, not even the unborn. It is better here— there is peace.»
«Wouldn't
you like me to put out some of the lights?» I asked, hoping to divert his thoughts to some other subject.
«There should be light,» he answered. «More light... more light. He works in darkness up there. He is too proud. He works for the devil. It is better here with the wet clothes.» He was silent for a moment. There was the sound of drops of water falling from the wet garments. I gave a shudder. I thought of the blood dripping from Dr. Onirifick's hands. «Yes, drops of blood,» said the old man, as if reading my thoughts. «He is a butcher. He gives his mind to death. This is the greatest darkness of the human mind—killing what is struggling to be born. Even animals one should not kill, except in sacrifice. My son knows everything—but he doesn't know that murder is the greatest sin. There is light here... great light... and he sits up there in darkness. His father sits in the cellar, praying for him, and he is up there butchering, butchering. Everywhere there is blood. The house is polluted. It is better here with the wash. I would wash the money too, if I could. This is the only clean room in the house. And the light is good. Light. Light. We must open their eyes so that they can see. Man must not work in darkness. The mind must be clear, the mind must know what it is doing.»
I said nothing. I listened respectfully, hynoptized by the droning words, the blinding light. The old man had the face and manners of a patrician; the toga he wore and the velvet skull cap accentuated his lofty air. His fine sensitive hands were those of a surgeon; the blue veins stood out like quicksilver. In his overlighted dungeon he sat like a court physician who been banished from his native land. He reminded me vividly of certain celebrated physicians who had flourished at the court of Spain during the time of the Moors. There was a silvery, musical quality about him; his spirit was clean and it radiated from every pore of his being.
Presently I heard the patter of slippered feet. It was Ghompal arriving with a bowl of hot milk. Immediately the old man's expression altered. He leaned back against the wall and looked at Ghompal with warmth and tenderness.