by Henry Miller
His enthusiasm was like the growl of a cataract. He could gush with equal fervor about the architecture of the Alhambra, the nature of idolatry, the topography of ancient Thebes, or Communism among the Incas. At the mention of Moses Maimonides he fell into a rhapsody concerning the achievements of the twelfth century. He enumerated the titles of certain original treatises by that great sage, such as “On the Bites of Venomous Animals,” “On Asthma,” “On Natural History,” “On Hemorrhoids,” and so on.
His imagination was like the intestinal procession of the scarab, which, while gorging itself for days and nights uninterruptedly, continues at the same time to unwind its unbroken tape of excreta as a reminder of the abdominal prodigies performed in its temple of dung. His rabbinical metaphors were invested with the cloudiness of the pearl. When he touched the real of epistemology everything trembled and glittered. Sinister and hideous to the perceiver, his soul fluttered like an elongated spirit lost in a mirage.
Meanwhile Prigozi had suddenly become interested in a newspaper which someone had left on a chair beside him. This is what he read beneath a flamboyant illustration on page fifteen:
“Since the beginning of the world it has been the recognized duty of man to reverence his dead—to give appropriate expression of his sincere affection and fidelity, by providing a suitable resting place for them, according to the custom of the times.
“It is a comforting thought, as far as consolation is possible, to know that one has done all he can to make the last abode of those who have gone before beautiful and soothing to the eye of the living who come there to reverence their memory.
“Just as nations honor their illustrious dead by providing an enduring monument, so that their names may be perpetuated for all time, it is now possible to do as much for your own beloved dead, and it is in keeping with the progress of the times; other methods belong to bygone ages.
“The directors of this humanitarian movement personally request you to clip the coupon from this notice and send it to the address below, and you will receive a beautifully illustrated book describing this magnificent and imposing edifice that will enable you to get a full, comprehensive idea of its scope.
“Do not confuse mausoleum with cremation. The body of your loved one is not consumed by fire-heat, but is sealed up in a snow-white compartment, same as is done in the finest tombs or private vaults, at no greater cost than ordinary ground burial. Mausoleum entombment is in keeping with the progress of the times, and it is as sanitary as cremation and as sentimental as a churchyard. A mausoleum provides a beautiful resting place and a permanent memorial for the dead, and is a sane and practical mode of burial.
“It provides a place where families and friends may lie side by side in a snow-white compartment, high and dry above the ground, where neither water, damp, nor mold can enter, the MAUSOLEUM ELIMINATES THE HORRORS OF THE GRAVE, MAKING THE ULTIMATE END ONE OF CONSOLATION AND BEAUTY.
“This edifice, so sacred in its memories, will never be desecrated, as is often the case in abandoned cemeteries. This mausoleum is nonsectarian, and is open to all creeds and religions. For those preferring cremation we will have a few very fine niches for urns.
“The mausoleum will be beautiful and rich in architecture; constructed of granite, marble, and bronze, making it as secure and time-resisting as the pyramids of Egypt.
“You must admit that death is the final victor over all, and you would not bury your family in the ground unprotected by casket or box, but even though you do use a casket or a box it means not much more than leaving them entirely unprotected.
“WHEN YOU PLACE THE LOVED FORM IN THE MAUSOLEUM YOU KNOW THAT IT WILL BE IN THE DRY.
“You have the choice of just two things. The one typifying death in darkness; death in the depths; looking down, always down, into the wet grave. The other typifying death in light; death in sunshine and brightness; death in the hope of the resurrection.”
Prigozi folded the newspaper and shoved it into his coat pocket. A hideous peal of laughter burst from his lips.
Naomi and Moloch exchanged meaningful glances. The poet excused himself to take a walk.
Prigozi was easily persuaded to leave. On the way home they loitered before a number of dim-lit windows. A sign in a drugstore window, reading “Headquarters for drugs, trusses, and crutches,” attracted Prigozi’s attention. He was enthralled by it.
“I want a facsimile of that,” he shouted, dancing in front of the window and clapping his hands like a child clamoring for a bauble.
Arrived at his door, he turned to Moloch.
“You take Naomi home, but mind you, don’t take her in the subway. It snows chloride of lime there. Psst!” (He put a finger to his lips.) “That keeps the galoots and buzzards away! Psst!”
Moloch escorted Naomi along Second Avenue in silence. It was only a few minutes’ walk from Prigozi’s place to hers. He intended to rush back to Prigozi immediately.
They passed once more the little Russian bookshop with a picture of Dostoevsky in the window. It was a veritable Christ reincarnated in the body of a moujik. Tears dropped languidly from the sockets of his eyes. Moloch tipped his hat, a gesture which, rapid and unobtrusive though it was, did not fail to catch Naomi’s eye.
The furnished room which Naomi called her home was situated on the third floor of an old brick house, above the “European” restaurant. The odor of the kitchen saturated the halls.
He said good night to her at the vestibule and pressed her hand warmly. She permitted her hand to remain in his. As they stood there John Dos Passos’ gong of a moon came up over Wee-hawken.
Naomi had extracted a promise from him to call on her soon.
“When you come,” she said, “knock softly.”
Moloch now strode with rapid steps in the direction whence they had come. “Knock softly,” he repeated to himself, his shadow already visualized athwart her threshold. He wondered if Prigozi had slashed his throat in the meantime. This speculation did not prevent him from making a mental note to purchase a collar in the morning so that he might make himself presentable. Presently he stepped into a telephone booth. He always telephoned Blanche when he had a good excuse.
Blanche sounded sleepy and annoyed.
“I’ve got to stick by him,” he reiterated. “Sorry I had to disturb you.”
“You didn’t need to telephone,” came Blanche’s voice. “We’ll get along without you,” and she hung up.
“There you go,” he mumbled to himself, as if he were the most righteous individual on two legs, “that’s just another cock-and-bull story to her! The devil take her! Let her think as she likes.”
As he approached the corner, the Colossus of Memnon passed him. His chin was resting on his shirtfront. His two blackjacking fists were hidden in his coat pockets, the one strangling the bull Apis, the other hurling imprecations at the god Osiris. His mustache was moist with cologne water.
Moloch stopped resolutely and turned about. His eyes traveled after the mysterious one. He waited and watched. The figure moved unswervingly toward its destination. It was swallowed up by a vestibule above the “European” restaurant.
Moloch retraced his steps with the utmost deliberation, and took up a post a few feet from the stoop, in the obscurity of a deep shadow.
“We’ll give this fly-by-night a few minutes to reappear,” he decided, “or we’ll investigate.”
The thought of a preposterous tale he had been on the verge of telling Naomi at the Cafe recurred to mind. Had he taken leave of his sense altogether? There were things one could apologize for—such as pulling goatees—but this tale …! He heaved a sigh of relief.
What was the Holy Ghost doing up there so long? Were they holding a tryst?
But no … the poet was coming out of the vestibule. Cautiously he placed one foot before the other, treading softly, very very softly, down the stone stoop. He gripped the balustrade with the sweat of his moist palms. In the darkness his form had the appearance of an amorphous mass
set in concrete clodhoppers. If one were to come suddenly upon the massive figure of Rodin’s Balzac of a foggy night one might observe a strange similarity in these two figures. Those who had never seen the Balzac under the conditions described often said that he resembled a crumpled Yiddish newspaper. (Why a “Yiddish” paper?) For the same reason, no doubt, that people speak of a “bright Sunday morning”; implying, it is to be assumed, that the seventh day of the week, when it is bright, is brighter than any of the other days in the week.
Moloch stood unnoticed during the other’s descent, eclipsed by the velvet shadow of the huge stoop. He watched the figure depart and lose itself, as a wraith makes its appearance on a darkened stage only to be quickly swallowed up by the wings. His mind was groping for an explanation to fit this strange episode. It encountered only high, blank walls.
And then a curious thing happened to him. The Colossus of Memnon faded completely from his mind, and perhaps for the fraction of a minute he was lost to the world about him. In a dreamlike state he saw himself again as a big, overgrown child, sucking a lollipop. His skin was very fair, and he had lovely, flaxen curls. Under his arm was a handsome, gilt-edged Testament bound in rich vellum. He was sitting in the belfry of the old Presbyterian Church, repeating like an automaton the words of the Twenty-third Psalm.
But why were the crowds down below muttering and shaking their ponderous fists at him? He grew terribly frightened. The lollipop fell out of his mouth, hit the pavement below with a resounding smack, and was shattered to bits, like a watch crystal. A panic seized him as the crowd surged closer, threatening to pull him and the belfry down.
Suddenly an angel appeared in the sky and swooped down upon him like a hawk. With a tremendous flapping of wings the angel carried him aloft, up into the azure reaches of the sky. When he recovered sufficiently to look into the angel’s face, he discovered that it was not a Gentile angel. The angel looked a hell of a lot like Prigozi, except that it had no wens, no spectacles, no blackheads.... Who was it said that it is not possible to conceive of an ugly angel? Well, then, whoever it was lied!
Dion Moloch made up his mind to storm the donjon. He stood outside Naomi’s door and knocked softly. There was no answer. He knocked again, very softly. He felt something smooth and slippery under his feet. Someone was fumbling with the lock. The door opened, ever so lightly, for just a fraction of a space, and he heard her whisper, “Who is there?”
The sound of her hushed voice coming from the darkness made his very guts tremble. He leaned his full weight against the door and pushed into the room. Her frightened form was vaguely visible in the center of the tiny room. “It’s me, Dion Moloch,” he whispered hoarsely, seizing her and fastening his mouth to hers. She made no resistance; her head fell back, her body completely relaxed. Thus they stood for several minutes; he released her to close the door. Locking it carefully, he extracted the key and placed it on the dresser.
She was still standing in the center of the room, clad in a flimsy nightshirt, her arms crossed on her bosom in the attitude of a martyr about to mount the stake. He grabbed her again and repeated his advances. She uttered not a word, but surrendered herself to him as in a dream.
“Were you expecting me?” he gasped finally.
He had awakened her from a profound slumber. She had been dreaming, so she related, of a woman robed in white who was carrying a pitcher to a well. The well was fearsomely deep, and looking down into its depths, the woman had seen the reflection of the moon, a slender crescent moon shimmering with opals. “I was still dreaming when I went to the door,” she concluded.
“And now,” he asked, “are you dreaming now?”
She reclined on a narrow cot, her exquisite figure revealed by the light of the street which managed to beat its way uncertainly through the yellow shade. Placing a robe over her prostrate figure, he knelt beside the bed to embrace her. The touch of his hand stealing lightly over her warm body made her tremble and cling to him. He lay down beside her, flesh to flesh, quivering with spasms of ecstasy.... “Naomi, Naomi,” he murmured in the darkness....
The brief delirium of utter silence in which they were swallowed was shattered by a rude knock at the door. They heard a voice calling, “Naomi.”
Instantly she placed her hand on his mouth and implored him in a panic-stricken whisper to be quiet. “Don’t move!” she begged. The fragrance of her breath invaded his nostrils, mingled with his blood, and took complete possession of him. They clutched each other tightly, scarcely daring to breathe.
“Naomi, Naomi,” the voice called. “For God’s sake open the door. It’s only me. Please, please … I won’t hurt you.”
There could be no doubt whose voice it was. Moloch gave a start; a feeling of horror and pity came over him. Naomi continued to hold her hand over his mouth. He could hear her heart pounding.
Meanwhile the voice continued to plead … a perfect babble of entreaties, pitched in a low, wailing mode that threatened at any moment to break into sobs, or wild laughter.
“Naomi, say something. Don’t lie there like a dead one. Speak to me … speak to me. I’m going mad!”
The voice trailed off into a distaff of gibberish. Suddenly the door trembled, as if a heavy object had been thrown against it. This was followed by groans—mournful, sickening groans, that filled them with dread.
The picture of Prigozi, lying in a state of collapse outside the door, dominated Moloch’s mind. It made him writhe and squirm. Naomi clutched him frantically.
“Please don’t go,” she whispered. Her voice was hushed with awe.
“But he may be hurt “
The thought that Prigozi may have come there, of all places, to destroy himself filled Moloch with alarm. He pictured himself stumbling over a cold body in the dawn … ignoring it as if it were the body of a murdered criminal.... And the questions Blanche would ask! All her foul suspicions....
Naomi tried to soothe him. She kissed him passionately, stroked his hair, fondled him and whispered her love in words that burned his ears. But he was immune. Prigozi might as well be lying in bed with them, between them, his sorrowful face upturned, baying to the moon.
“No one will know about us, Naomi. Don’t let him lie there. This is horrible. Let me go to him….” In vain he expostulated. She refused to let him move.
“No, no, no!” she whimpered. “You must stay here. He won’t die. You’ll see—he’ll go away He wouldn’t do … that.” She buried her head on his bosom to avert the sinister shadow of the corpse.
Moloch thought and thought. “If one only knew what had happened to him! He might be shamming. It’s not impossible for him to do a trick like that.” He pursued this idea further, exhausting every shred of comfort there was in it To begin with, he asked himself, how was he to know that Prigozi hadn’t followed him? On the other hand, supposing he were in distress, supposing he really did take a notion to search for him, wouldn’t it be natural for him to come here first? He thought of their conversation in the lavatory, and the strange conduct of Prigozi thereafter. All that lunatic nonsense in the street, when they were taking him home—it was plain enough! The fellow was putting on so as to draw him back again. Prigozi couldn’t very well say, “Look here, Dion, I changed my mind about Naomi, I don’t want you to take her.” … It was more simple to put up a ruse, to snare him away.
“By Jove! I have it!” he muttered, and sprang to a sitting position. Naomi sat up, too, and looked at him in bewilderment.
“The hell with him!” he exclaimed. “Let him lie there!” He pointed to the door with a gleeful expression, as though the door constituted a successful barricade against gnomes and goblins. Just then a whitish square gleamed with a faint reflected light at the crack of the door. He put his arm about Naomi and pointed to the object. There was a dark, irregular spot on the sheet of white as though a clot of blood had congealed upon it. Naomi was frightened; then she grew perplexed, and finally, unable to restrain her curiosity, she stole quietly out of the bed and tipt
oed to the door. She bent over to examine the object. Moloch kept his eyes riveted to the spot.
She came close to him and held a piece of letter paper before his eyes. The dark spot was no longer there. Between her thumb and forefinger was the petal of a rose.
They lay flat on their stomachs and held the paper under the soft light that penetrated from beneath the window shade. The moment he glanced at the distorted characters Moloch was shocked. It was not that he recognized the handwriting. It would be impossible to recognize such a scrawl. He had seen such chirography before—from the pens of imbeciles and maniacs. His speculations were interrupted by the sound of Prigozi’s heavy body rustling at the door. They were startled. They gazed at one another with an expression of dubiety. In a moment came the sound of heavy, firm steps. They heard the wooden stairs creak and groan under the firm, vengeful tread....