Sexus, Page 42

  “Just a moment,” she begged. “I was going to ask you if you couldn’t come over sooner, say Sunday, and take us out to the country. We might have a little picnic, the three of us. I’d do up a lunch . . .”

  Her voice sounded very tender.

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll come. I’ll come early . . . about eight o’clock.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” she said.

  “I’m absolutely sure. I’ll show it to you—Sunday.”

  She gave a short, dirty little laugh. I hung up before she had closed her trap.

  16

  While the divorce proceedings were pending events rolled up as at the end of an epoch. It only needed a war to top it off. First of all the Satanic Majesties of the Cosmodemoniacal Telegraph Company had seen fit to shift my headquarters once again, this time to the top of an old loft building in the twine and paper-box district. My desk stood in the center of an enormous deserted floor which was used as a drill room by the messenger brigade after hours. In the adjoining room, equally large and empty, a sort of combination clinic, dispensary and gymnasium was established. All that was needed to complete the picture was the installation of a few pool tables. Some of the half-wits brought their roller skates along to while away the “rest periods.” It was an infernal racket they made all day long, but I was so utterly disinterested now in all the company’s plans and projects that, far from disturbing me, it afforded me great amusement. I was thoroughly isolated now from the other offices. The snooping and spying had abated; I was in quarantine, so to speak. The hiring and firing went on in dreamy fashion; my staff had been cut down to two—myself and the ex-pugilist who had formerly been the wardrobe attendant. I made no effort to keep the files in order, nor did I investigate references, nor did I conduct any correspondence. Half the time I didn’t bother to answer the telephone; if there were anything very urgent there was always the telegraph.

  The atmosphere of the new quarters was distinctly dementia praecox. They had relegated me to hell and I was enjoying it. As soon as I got rid of the day’s applicants I would go into the adjoining room and watch the shenanigans. Now and then I would put on a pair of skates myself and do a twirl with the goofy ones. My assistant looked on askance, unable to comprehend what had happened to me. Sometimes, in spite of his austerity, his “code” and other detracting psychological elements, he would break out into a laugh which would prolong itself to the verge of hysteria. Once he asked me if I was having “trouble at home.” He feared that the next step would be drink, I suppose.

  As a matter of fact, I did begin to indulge rather freely about this time, what with one thing and another. It was a harmless sort of drinking, which began only at the dinner table. By sheer accident I had discovered a French-Italian restaurant in the back of a grocery store. The atmosphere was most convivial. Everyone was a “character,” even the police sergeants and the detectives who gorged themselves disgracefully at the proprietor’s expense.

  I had to have some place to while away the evenings, now that Mona had sneaked into the theater by the back door. Whether Monahan had found her the job or whether, as she said, she had just lied her way in, I was never able to discover. At any rate, she had given herself a new name, one that would suit her new career, and with it a complete new history of her life and antecedents. She had become English all of a sudden, and her people had been connected with the theater as far back as she could remember, which was often amazingly far. It was in one of the little theaters which then flourished that she made her entrance into that world of make-believe which so well suited her. Since they paid her scarcely anything they could afford to act gullible.

  Arthur Raymond and his wife were at first inclined to disbelieve the news. Another one of Mona’s inventions, they thought. Rebecca, always poor at dissembling, practically laughed in Mona’s face. But when she came home with the script of a Schnitzler play one evening and seriously began to rehearse her role their incredulity gave way to consternation. And when Mona, by some inexplicable legerdemain, succeeded in attaching herself to the Theatre Guild, the atmosphere of the household became supersaturated with envy, spite and malevolence. The play was becoming too real—there was a very real danger now that Mona might become the actress she pretended to be.

  The rehearsals were endless, it seemed. I never knew what hour Mona would return home. When I did spend an evening with her it was like listening to a drunk. The glamor of the new life had completely intoxicated her. Now and then I would stay in of an evening and try to write, but it was no go. Arthur Raymond was always there, lying in wait like an octopus. “What do you want to write for?” he would say. “God, aren’t there enough writers in the world?” And then he would begin to talk about writers, the writers he admired, and I would sit before the machine, as if ready to resume my work the moment he left me. Often I would do nothing more than write a letter—to some famous author, telling him how greatly I admired his work, hinting that, if he had not already heard of me, he would soon. In this way it fell about one day that I received an astonishing letter from that Dostoevski of the North, as he was called: Knut Hamsun. It was written by his secretary, in broken English, and for a man who was shortly to receive the Nobel prize, it was to say the least a puzzling piece of dictation. After explaining that he had been pleased, even touched, by my homage, he went on to say (through his wooden mouthpiece) that his American publisher was not altogether satisfied with the financial returns from the sale of his books. They feared that they might not be able to publish any more of his books—unless the public were to show a more lively interest. His tone was that of a giant in distress. He wondered vaguely what could be done to retrieve the situation, not so much for himself as for his dear publisher, who was truly suffering because of him. And then, as the letter progressed, a happy idea seemed to take hold of him and forthwith he gave expression to it. It was this—once he had received a letter from a Mr. Boyle, who also lived in New York and whom I doubtless knew (!). He thought perhaps Mr. Boyle and myself might get together, rack our brains over the situation, and quite possibly come to some brilliant solution. Perhaps we could tell other people in America that there existed in the wilds and fens of Norway a writer named Knut Hamsun whose books had been conscientiously translated into English and were now languishing on the shelves of his publisher’s stock room. He was sure that if he could only increase the sales of his books by a few hundred copies his publisher would take heart and have faith in him again. He had been to America, he said, and though his English was too poor to permit him to write me in his own hand, he was confident that his secretary could make clear his thoughts and intentions. I was to look up Mr. Boyle, whose address he no longer remembered. Do what you can, he urged. Perhaps there were several other people in New York who had heard of his work and with whom we could operate. He closed on a dolorous but majestic note. . . . I examined the letter carefully to see if perhaps he hadn’t shed a few tears over it.

  If the envelope hadn’t borne the Norwegian postmark, if the letter itself hadn’t been signed in his own scrawl, which I later confirmed, I would have thought it a hoax. Tremendous discussions ensued amid boisterous laughter. It was considered that I had been royally paid out for my foolish hero worship. The idol had been smashed and my critical faculties reduced to zero. No one could possibly see how I could ever read Knut Hamsun again. To tell the honest truth, I felt like weeping. Some terrible miscarriage had occurred, just how I couldn’t fathom, but despite the evidence to the contrary, I simply could not bring myself to believe that the author of Hunger, Pan, Victoria, Growth of the Soil, had dictated that letter. It was entirely conceivable that he had left the matter to his secretary, that he had signed his name in good faith without bothering to be told the contents. A man as famous as he undoubtedly received dozens of letters a day from admirers all over the world. There was nothing in my youthful panegyric to interest a man of his stature. Besides, he probably despised the whole American race, having had a bitter tim
e of it here during the years of his pilgrimage. Most likely he had told his dolt of a secretary on more than one occasion that his American sales were negligible. Perhaps his publishers had been pestering him—publishers are known to have only one concern in dealing with their authors, namely sales. Perhaps he had remarked disgustedly, in the presence of his secretary, that Americans had money to spend on everything but the things worth while in life. And she, poor imbecile, probably worshipful of the master, had decided to avail herself of the opportunity and offer a few crackbrained suggestions in order to ameliorate the painful situation. She was more than likely no Dagmar, no Edwige. No, not even a simple soul like Martha Gude, who tried so desperately not to be taken in by Herr Nagel’s romantic flights and overtures. She was probably one of those educated Norwegian headcheeses who are emancipated in everything but the imagination. She was probably hygienic and scientific-minded, capable of keeping her house in order, doing harm to no one, mindful of her own business, and dreaming one day of becoming the head of a fertilizing establishment or a crèche for bastard children.

  No, I was thoroughly disillusioned in my god. I purposely reread some of his books and, naive soul that I was, I wept again over certain passages. I was so deeply impressed that I began to wonder if I had dreamed the letter.

  The repercussions from this “miscarriage” were quite extraordinary. I became savage, bitter, caustic. I became a wanderer who played on muted strings of iron. I impersonated one after another of my idol’s characters. I talked sheer rot and nonsense; I poured hot piss over everything. I became two people—myself and my impersonations, which were legion.

  The divorce trial was impending. That made me even more savage and bitter, for some inexplicable reason. I hated the farce which has to be gone through in the name of justice. I loathed and despised the lawyer whom Maude had retained to protect her interests. He looked like a corn-fed Romain Rolland, a chauve-souris without a crumb of humor or imagination. He seemed to be charged with moral indignation; he was a prick through and through, a coward, a sneak, a hypocrite. He gave me the creeps.

  We had it out about him the day of the outing. Lying in the grass somewhere near Mineola. The child running about gathering flowers. It was warm, very warm, and there was a hot dry wind blowing which made one nervous and rooty. I had taken my prick out and put it in her hand. She examined it shyly, not wishing to be too clinical about it and yet dying to convince herself that there was nothing wrong. After a while she dropped it and rolled over on her back, her knees up, and the warm wind licking her bottom. I jockeyed her into a favorable position, made her pull her panties off. She was in one of her protesting moods again. Didn’t like being mauled like that in an open field. But there’s not a soul around, I insisted. I made her spread her legs farther apart; I ran my hand up her cunt. It was gooey.

  I pulled her to me and tried to get it in. She balked. She was worried about the child. I looked around. “She’s all right,” I said. “She’s having a good time. She’s not thinking about us.”

  “But supposing she comes back . . . and finds us . . .”

  “She’ll think we’re sleeping. She won’t know what we’re doing. . .”

  With this she pushed me away violently. It was outrageous. “You’d take me in front of your own child! It’s horrible.”

  “It’s not horrible at all. You’re the one who’s horrible. I tell you, it’s innocent. Even if she should remember it—when she’s grown up—she’ll be a woman then and she’ll understand. There’s nothing dirty about it. It’s your dirty mind, that’s all.”

  By this time she was slipping her panties on. I hadn’t bothered to shove my prick back in my trousers. It was getting limp now; it fell on the grass, dejected.

  “Well, let’s have something to eat then,” I said. “If we can’t fuck we can always eat.”

  “Yes, eat! You can eat any time. That’s all you care about, eating and sleeping.”

  “Fucking,’” I said, “not sleeping.”

  “I wish you’d stop talking to me that way.” She began to undo the lunch. “You have to spoil everything. I thought we might have a peaceful day, just once. You always said you wanted to take us out on a picnic. You never did. Not once. You thought of nothing but yourself, your friends, your women. I was a fool to think you might change. You don’t care about your child—you’ve hardly noticed her. You can’t even restrain yourself in her presence. You’d take me in front of her and pretend that it was innocent. You’re vile . . . I’m glad it’s all over. By this time next week I’ll be free . . . I’ll be rid of you forever. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve made me bitter and hateful. You make me despise myself. Since I’ve known you I don’t recognize myself any more. I’ve become what you wanted me to become. You never loved me . . . never. All you wanted was to satisfy your desires. You’ve treated me like an animal. You take what you want and you go. You go from me to the next woman—any woman—just so long as she’ll open her legs for you. You haven’t an ounce of loyalty or tenderness or consideration in you. . . . Here, take it!” she said, shoving a sandwich in my fist. “I hope you choke on it!”

  As I brought the sandwich to my mouth I smelled the odor of her cunt on my fingers. I sniffed my fingers while looking up at her with a grin.

  “You’re disgusting!” she said.

  “Not so very, my lady. It smells good to me, even if you are a hateful sourpuss. I like it. It’s the only thing about you I like.”

  She was furious now. She began to weep.

  “Weeping because I said I liked your cunt! What a woman! Jesus, I’m the one who ought to do the despising. What sort of woman are you?”

  Her tears became more copious. Just then the child came running up. What was the matter? Why was mother crying?

  “It’s nothing,” said Maude, drying her tears. “I turned my ankle.” A few dry sobs belched from her despite her efforts to restrain herself. She bent over the basket and selected a sandwich for the child.

  “Why don’t you do something, Henry?” said the child. She sat there looking from one to the other with a grave, puzzled look.

  I got to my knees and rubbed Maude’s ankle.

  “Don’t touch me!” she said harshly.

  “But he wants to make it better,” said the child.

  “Yes, daddy’ll make it better,” I said, rubbing the ankle gently, and then patting the calf of her leg.

  “Kiss her,” said the child. “Kiss her and make the tears go away.”

  I bent forward and kissed Maude on the cheek. To my astonishment she flung her arms around me and kissed me violently on the mouth. The child also put her arms around us and kissed us.

  Suddenly Maude had a fresh spasm of weeping. This time it was really pitiful to behold. I felt sorry for her. I put my arms around her tenderly and comforted her.

  “God,” she sobbed, “what a farce!”

  “But it isn’t,” I said. “I mean it sincerely. I’m sorry, sorry for everything.”

  “Don’t cry any more,” begged the child. “I want to eat. I want Henry to take me over there,” and she pointed with her little hand to a copsewood at the edge of the field. “I want you to come too.”

  “To think this is the only time . . . and it had to be like this.” She was sniffling now.

  “Don’t say that, Maude. The day isn’t over yet. Let’s forget about all that. Come on, let’s eat.”

  Reluctantly, wearily, it seemed, she picked up a sandwich and held it to her mouth. “I can’t eat,” she murmured, dropping the sandwich.

  “Come on, yes you can!” I urged, putting my arm around her again.

  “You act this way now . . . and later you’ll do something to spoil it.”

  “No I won’t. . . I promise you.”

  “Kiss her again,” said the child.

  I leaned over and kissed her softly and gently on the lips. She seemed really placated now. A soft light came into her eyes.

  “Why can’t you be like this always?” she said,
after a brief pause.

  “I am,” I said, “when I’m given a chance. I don’t like to fight with you. Why should I? We’re not man and wife any longer.”

  “Then why do you treat me the way you do? Why do you always make love to me? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “I’m not making love to you,” I answered. “It’s not love, it’s passion. That’s not a crime, is it? For God’s sake, let’s not start that all over again. I’m going to treat you the way you want to be treated— today. I won’t touch you again.”

  “I don’t ask that. I don’t say you shouldn’t touch me. But it’s the way you do it. . . you don’t show any respect for me . . . for my person. That’s what I dislike. I know you don’t love me any more, but you can behave decently towards me, even if you don’t care any more. I’m not the prude you pretend I am. I have feelings too . . . maybe deeper, stronger than yours. I can find someone else to replace you, don’t think that I can’t. I just want a little time . . .”

  She was munching her sandwich halfheartedly. Suddenly there was a gleam in her eye. She put on a coy, roguish expression.

  “I could get married tomorrow, if I wanted to,” she continued. “You never thought of that, did you? I’ve had three proposals already, as a matter of fact. The last one was from . . .” and here she mentioned the lawyer’s name.

  “Him?” I said, unable to repress a disdainful smile.

  “Yes, him,” she said. “And he’s not what you think he is. I like him very much.”

  “Well, that explains things. Now I know why he’s taken such a passionate interest in the case.”

  I knew she didn’t care for him, this Rocambolesque, any more than she cared for the doctor who explored her vagina with a rubber finger. She didn’t care for anybody really; all she wanted was peace, surcease from pain. She wanted a lap to sit on in the dark, a prick to enter her mysteriously, a babble of words to drown her unmentionable desires. Lawyer what’s-his-name would do of course. Why not? He would be as faithful as a fountain pen, as discreet as a rat trap, as provident as an insurance policy. He was a walking briefcase with pigeonholes in his belfry; he was a salamander with a heart of pastrami. He was shocked, was he, to learn that I had brought another woman to my own home? Shocked to learn that I had left the used condoms on the edge of the sink? Shocked that I had stayed for breakfast with my paramour? A snail is shocked when a drop of rain hits its shell. A general is shocked when he learns that his garrison has been massacred in his absence. God himself is shocked doubtless when He sees how revoltingly stupid and insensitive the human beast really is. But I doubt if angels are ever shocked—not even by the presence of the insane.