by Henry Miller
«You mean you'd like me to. Don't be impatient... you'll get your chance.»
«Not with me,» said Dolores, «I'm going to bed. You two can do what you like.»
For answer I closed the door and started undressing. When I returned I found Dolores stretched out on the couch and Irma sitting by her side with legs crossed, fully exposed.
«Don't mind anything she says,» said Irma. «She likes you just as much as I do... maybe more. She doesn't like Mona, that's all.»
«Is that true?» I looked from Irma to Dolores. The latter was silent, but it was a silence which meant affirmation. (
«I don't know why you should feel so strongly about her,» I hastened to continue. «She's never done anything to you. And you can't be jealous of her because... well, because you weren't in love with me... then.»
«Then? What do you mean? I was never in love with you, thank God!» said Dolores.
«It doesn't sound very convincing,» said Irma playfully. «Listen, if you never loved him don't be so passionate about it.» She turned to me and in her blithe way she said: «Why don't you kiss her and stop this nonsense?»
«All right, I will,» said I, and with that I bent over and embraced Dolores. At first she held her lips firmly shut, looking at me defiantly. Then, little by little, she surrendered, and when at last she pulled away she was biting my lips. As she pulled her lips ” away she gave me a little shove. «Get him out of here!» she said. I gave her a look of reproach in which there was an element of pity and disgust. She became at once repentant and yielding again. I bent over her again, tenderly this time, and as I slipped my tongue into her mouth I put my hand between her legs. She tried to push my hand away but the effort was too much.
«Whew! it's getting close,» I heard Irma say, and then she pulled me away. «I'm here too, don't forget.» She was offering her lips and breasts.
It was getting to be a tug of war. I jumped up to pour myself a drink. The bath robe stood out like a stretched tent.
«Do you have to show us that?» said Dolores, pretending to be embarrassed.
«I don't have to but I will, since you ask for it,» I said, drawing the robe back and exposing myself completely.
Dolores turned her head to the wall, mumbling something in a pseudo-hysterical voice about «disgusting and obscene». Irma on the other hand looked at it good-humoredly. Finally she reached for it and squeezed it gently. As she stood up to accept the drink I had poured for her I opened her robe and placed my cock between her legs. We drank together with my cock knocking at the stable door.
«I want a drink too,» said Dolores petulantly. We turned round simultaneously and faced her. Her face was scarlet, her eyes big and bright, as through she had put belladonna in them. «You look debauched,» she said, her eyes switching back and forth from Irma to me.
I handed her the glass and she took a deep draught of it. She was struggling to obtain that freedom which Irma flaunted like a flag.
Her voice came challengingly now. «Why don't you do it and get done with it?» she said, flinging her words at us. In wriggling about she had uncovered herself; she knew it too and made no effort to hide her nakedness.
«Lie down there,» I said, pushing Irma gently back on the divan.
Irma took my hand and pulled. «You lie down too,» she said.
I raised the glass to my lips and as it was slipping down my throat the light went out. I heard Dolores saying—«No, don't do that, please!» But the light remained out and as I stood there finishing the drink I felt Irma's hand on my prick, squeezing it convulsively. I put the glass down and jumped in between them. Almost at once they closed in on me. Dolores was kissing me passionately and Irma, like a cat, had crouched down and fastened her mouth on my prick. It was an agonizing bliss which lasted for a few seconds and then I exploded in Irma's mouth.
When I arrived at Riverside Drive it was almost dawn. Mona had not returned. I lay listening for her step. I began to fear that she had met with an accident—worse, that perhaps she had killed herself, or tried to, at least. It was possible too that she had gone home to her parents. But then why had she left the cab? Perhaps to run to the subway. But then the subway was not in that direction. I could of course telephone her home, but I knew she would interpret that badly. I wondered if she had telephoned during the night. Neither Rebecca or Arthur ever bothered to leave a message for me; they always waited until they saw me.
Towards eight o'clock I knocked at their door. They were still asleep. I had to knock loudly before they answered. And then I learned nothing—they had come home very late themselves.
In despair I went to Kronski's room. He too was muffled in sleep. He didn't seem to know what I was driving at.
Finally he said: «What's the matter—has she been out all night again? No, there wasn't any call for you. Get out of here... leave me alone!»
I hadn't slept a wink. I felt exhausted. But then the reassuring thought came to me that she might telephone me at the office. I almost expected a message to be lying on my desk waiting for me.
Most of the day went by in taking cat naps. I slept at my desk, my head buried in my folded arms. Several times I called Rebecca to see if she had received any message, but it was always the same answer. When it came time to close shop I lingered on. No matter what had happened, I could not believe that she would let the day pass without telephoning me. It was just incredible.
A strange, nervous vitality possessed me. Suddenly I was wide awake, more wide awake than I could have been had I rested three days in bed. I would wait another half hour and if she didn't phone I would go directly to her home.
As I was pacing back and forth with pantherish strides the stairway door opened and a little shaver with dark skin entered. He closed the door behind him quickly as if he were shutting out a pursuer. There was something jolly and mysterious about him which his Cuban voice exaggerated.
«You will give me a job, won't you, Mr. Miller?» he burst out. «I must have the messenger job to complete my studies. Everybody tells me that you are a kind man—and I can see it myself—you have a good face. I am proficient in many things, as you will discover when you know me better. Juan Rico is my name. I am eighteen years old. I am a poet too.»
«Well, well,» I said, chuckling and stroking him under the chin—he was the size of a midget and looked like one—«so you're a poet? Then I'm surely going to give you a job.»
«I'm an acrobat too,» he said. «My father had a circus once. You will find me very speedy on my legs. I love to go hither and about with zest and alacrity. I am also extremely courteous and when delivering a message I would say, 'Thank you sir', and doff my cap respectfully. I know all the streets by heart, including the Bronx. And if you would put me in the Spanish neighborhood you would find me very effective. Do I please you, sir?» He gave me a bewitching grin which implied that he knew very well how to sell himself.
«Go over there and sit down,» I said. «I'll give you a blank to fill out. To-morrow morning you can start in bright and early—with a smile.»
«Oh I can smile, sir—beautifully,» and he did.
«You're sure you're eighteen?»
«Oh yes, sir, that I can prove. I have all my papers with me.»
I gave him an application blank and went to the adjoining room—the rink—to leave him in peace. Suddenly the telephone rang. I bounded back to the desk and picked up the receiver. It was Mona speaking, in a subdued, restrained, unnatural voice, as though she had been drained hollow.
«He died a little while ago,» she said. «I've been at his side ever since I left you...»
I mumbled some inadequate words of consolation and then I asked her when she was coming back. She wasn't sure just when, she wanted me to do her a little favor... to go to the department store and buy her a mourning dress and some black gloves. Size sixteen. What sort of material? She didn't know anything I chose... A few more words and she hung up—Little Juan Rico was looking up into my eyes like a faithful dog. He had understood ever
ything and was trying in his delicate Cuban way to let me know that he wished to share my sorrow.
«It's all right, Juan,» I said, «everybody has to die some time.»
«Was that your wife who telephoned?» he asked. His eyes were moist and glistening.
«Yes,» I said, «that was my wife.»
«I'm sure she must be beautiful.»
«What makes you say that?»
«The way you talked to her... I could almost see her. I wish I could marry a beautiful woman some day. I think about it very of ten.»
«You're a funny lad,» I said. «Thinking about marriage already. Why, you're just a boy.»
«Here's my application, sir. Will you kindly look it over now so that I may be sure I can come tomorrow?»
I gave it a quick glance and assured him it was satisfactory.
«Then I am at your service, sir. And now, sir, if you will pardon me, may I suggest that you let me stay with you a little while? I don't think it is good for you to be alone at this moment. When the heart is sad one needs a friend.»
I burst out laughing. «A good idea,» I said. «We'll go to dinner together, how's that? And a movie afterwards—does that suit you?»
He got up and began to frisk about like a trained dog. Suddenly he became curious about the empty room in the rear. I followed him in and watched him good-naturedly as he examined the paraphernalia. The roller skates intrigued him. He had picked up a pair and was examining them as if he had never seen such things before.
«Put them on,» I said, «and do a turn. This is the skating rink.»
«Can you skate also?» he asked.
«Sure I can. Do you want to see me skate?»
«Yes,» he said, «and let me skate with you. I haven't done it for years and years. It's a rather comical diversion, is it not?»
We slipped the skates on. I shot forward with hands behind my back. Little Juan Rico followed at my heels. In the center of the room there were slender pillars; I looped in and around the pillars as if I were giving an exhibition.
«I say, but it's very exhilarating, isn't it?» said Juan breathlessly. «You glide like a zephyr.»
«Like a what?»
«Like a zephyr... a mild, pleasant breeze.»
«Oh, zephyr /»
«I wrote a poem once about a zephyr—that was long ago.»
I took his hand and swung him around. Then I placed him in front of me and with my hands on his waist I pushed him along, guiding him lightly and dexterously about the floor. Finally I gave him a good push and sent him skedaddling to the other end of the room.
«Now I'll show you a few fancy turns that I learned in the Tyrol,» I said, folding my arms in front of me and raising one leg in the air. The thought that never in her life would Mona suspect what I was doing this minute gave me a demonic joy. As I passed and repassed little Juan, who was now sitting on the window-sill absorbed in the spectacle, I made faces at him—first sad and mournful, then gay, then insouciant, then hilarious, then meditative, then stern, then menacing, then idiotic. I tickled myself in the arm-pits, like a monkey; I waltzed like a trained bear; I squatted low like a cripple; I sang in a cracked key, then shouted like a maniac. Round and round, ceaselessly, merrily, free as a bird. Juan joined in. We stalked each other like animals, we turned into waltzing mice, we did the deaf and dumb act.
And all the time I was thinking of Mona wandering about in the house of mourning, waiting for her mourning dress, her black gloves, and what not.
Round and round, with never a care. A little kerosene, a match, and we would go up in flames, like, a burning merry-go-round. I looked at Juan's poll—it was like dry tinder. I had an insane desire to set him on fire, set him aflame and send him hurtling down the elevator shaft. Then two or three wild turns, a la Breughel, and out the window!
I calmed down a little. Not Breughel, but Hieronymous Bosch. A season in hell, amidst the traps and pulleys of the medieval mind. First time around they yank off an arm. Second time around a leg. Finally just a torso rolling around. And the music playing with vibrant twangs. The iron harp of Prague. A sunken street near the synagogue. A dolorous peal of the bells. A woman's guttural lament.
Not Bosch any longer, but Chagall. An angel in mufti descending slantwise just above the roof. Snow on the ground and in the gutters little pieces of meat for the rats. Cracow in the violet light of evisceration. Weddings, births, funerals. A man in an overcoat and only one string to his violin. The bride has lost her mind; she dances with broken legs.
Round and round, ringing door-bells, ringing sleigh-bells. The cosmococcic round of grief and slats. At the roots of my hair a touch of frost, in the tips of my toes a fire. The world is a merry-go-round in flames, the horses burn down to the hocks. A cold, stiff father lying on a feather-bed. A mother green as gangrene. And the bridegroom rolling along.
First we'll bury him in the cold ground. Then we'll bury his name, his legend, his kites and race horses. And for the widow a bon-fire, a suttee Viennoise. I will marry the widow's daughter—in her mourning gown and black gloves. I will do atonement and anoint my head with ashes.
Round and round... Now the figure eight. Now the dollar sign. Now the spread eagle. A little kerosene and a match, and I would go up like a Christmas tree.
«Mr. Miller! Mr. Miller!» calls Juan. «Mr. Miller, stop it! Please stop it!»
The boy looks frightened. What can it be that makes him stare at me so?
«Mr. Miller,» he says, clutching me by the coat tail, «please don't laugh so! Please, I'm afraid for you.»
I relaxed. A broad grin came over my face, then softened to an amiable smile.
«That's better, sir. You had me worried. Hadn't we better go now?»
«I think so, Juan. I think we've had enough exercise for to day. To-morrow you will get a bicycle. Are you hungry?»
«Yes sir, I am indeed. I always have a fabulous appetite. Once I ate a whole chicken all by myself. That was when my aunt died.»
«We'll have chicken to-night, Juan me lad. Two chickens—one for you and one for me.»
«You're very kind, sir... Are you sure you're all right now?»
«Fine as a fiddle, Juan. Now where do you suppose we could buy a mourning dress at this hour?»
«I'm sure I don't know,» said Juan. In the street I hailed a taxi. I had an idea that on the East Side there would be shops still open. The driver was certain he could find one.
«It's very lively down here, isn't it?» said Juan, as we alighted in front of a dress shop. «Is it always this way?»
«Always,» I said. «A perpetual fiesta. Only the poor enjoy life.»
«I should like to work down here some time,» said Juan. «What language do they speak here?»
«All languages,» I said. «You can also speak English.»
The proprietor was standing at the door. He gave Juan a friendly pat on the head.
«I would like a mourning dress, size 16,» I said. «Not too expensive. It must be delivered to-night, C. O. D.»
A dark young Jewess with a Russian accent stepped forward. «Is it for a young or an old woman?» she said.
«A young woman, about your size. For my wife.»
She began showing me various models. I told her to choose the one she thought most suitable. «Not an ugly one,» I begged, «and not too chic either. You know what I mean.»
«And the gloves,» said Juan. «Don't forget the gloves.»
«What size?» asked the young lady.
«Let me see your hands,» I said. I studied them a moment. «A little larger than yours.»
I gave the address and left a generous tip for the errand boy. The proprietor now came up, began talking to Juan. He seemed to take a great fancy to him.
«Where do you come from, sonny?» he asked. «From Puerto Rico?»
«From Cuba,» said Juan.
«Do you speak Spanish?»
«Yes sir, and French and Portuguese.»
«You're very young to know so many languages.»
&
nbsp; «My father taught me them. My father was the editor of a newspaper in Havana.»
«Well, well,» said the proprietor. «You remind me of a little boy I knew in Odessa.»
«Odessa!» said Juan. «I was in Odessa once. I was a cabin boy on a trading ship.»
«What!» exclaimed the proprietor. «You were in Odessa? It's unbelievable. How old are you?»
«I'm eighteen, sir.»
The proprietor turned to me. He wanted to know if he couldn't invite us to have a drink with him in the ice cream parlor next door.
We accepted the invitation with pleasure. Our host, whose name was Eisenstein, began to talk about Russia. He had been a medical student originally. The boy who resembled Juan was his son who had died. «He was a strange boy,» said Mr. Eisenstein. «He didn't resemble any of the family. And he had his own way of thinking. He wanted to tramp around the world. No matter what you told him he had a different idea. He was a little philosopher. Once he ran away to Egypt—because he wanted to study the pyramids. When we told him we were going to America he said he would go to China. He said he didn't want to become rich, like the Americans. A strange boy! Such independence! Nothing frightened him—not even the Cossacks. I was almost afraid of him sometimes. Where did he come from? He didn't even look like a Jew...»
He went into a monologue about the strange blood that had been poured into the veins of the Jews in their wanderings. He spoke of strange tribes in Arabia, Africa, China. He thought even the Eskimos might have Jewish blood in them. As he talked he became intoxicated by this idea of the mixture of races and bloods. The world would be a stagnant pool had it not been for the Jews. «We are like seeds carried by the wind,» he said. «We blossom everywhere. Hardy plants. Until we are pulled up by the roots. Even then we don't perish. We can live upside down. We can grow between stones.»
All this time he had taken me for a Jew. Finally I explained that I was not a Jew, but that my wife was.
«And she became a Christian?»
«No, I'm becoming a Jew.»
Juan was looking at me with big, questioning eyes. Mr. Eisenstein didn't know whether I was joking or not.
«When I come down here,» I said, «I feel happy. I don't know what it is, but I feel more at home here. Maybe I have Jewish blood and don't know it.»