Sexus (65 page)

Then he took us by the arm and led us into the other room. The man and woman sitting opposite us followed. “I'll get rid of those bums in a minute,” he said, ushering us to our seats. “I'm very sorry, Mr. Miller. That's what I have to put up with because of this damned prohibition law. In Italy we don't have that sort of thing. Everybody mind his own business. . . .
What will you have to drink?
Wait, I bring you something good . . .”

The room he had brought us to was the private banquet room of a group of artists—theater people mostly, though there was a sprinkling of musicians, sculptors and painters. One of the group came up to us and, after introducing himself, presented us to the other members. They seemed pleased to have us in their midst. We were soon induced to leave our table and join the group at the big table which was loaded with carafes, seltzer bottles, cheeses, pastries, coffeepots and what not.

The proprietor came back beaming. “It's better in here, no?” he said. He had two liqueur bottles in his arms. “Why you don't play some music?” he said, seating himself at the table. “Arturo, get your guitar . . . go on, play something! Maybe the lady will sing for you.”

Soon we were all singing—Italian, German, French, Russian songs. The idiot brother, the chef, came in with a platter of cold cuts and fruit and nuts. He moved about the room unsteadily, a tipsy bear, grunting, squealing, laughing to himself. He hadn't an ounce of gray matter in his bean, but he was a wonderful cook. I don't think he ever went for a walk. His whole life was spent in the kitchen. He handled foodstuffs only—never money. What did he need money for? You couldn't cook with money. That was his brother's job, juggling the money. He kept track of what people ate and drank—he didn't care what his brother charged for it.
“Was it good?”
—that's all he cared to know. As to what they had had to eat he had only a rough, hazy idea. It was easy to cheat him, if you had a mind to do so. But no one ever did. It was easier to say, “I have no money . . . I'll pay you next
time.” “Sure, next time!” he would answer, without the slightest trace of fear or worry in his greasy countenance. “Next time you bring your friend too, hah?” And then he'd give you a clap on the back with his hairy paw—such a resounding thwack that your bones shook like dice. Such a griffin he was, and his wife a tiny, frail little thing with big, trusting eyes, a creature who made no sound, who talked and listened with big dolorous eyes.

Louis was his name, and it fitted him perfectly. Fat Louis! And his brother's name was Joe—Joe Sabbatini. Joe treated his imbecile brother much as a stableboy would treat his favorite horse. He patted him affectionately when he wanted him to conjure up an especially good dish for a patron. And Louis would respond with a grunt or a neigh, just as pleased as would be a sensitive mare if you stroked its silky rump. He even acted a little coquettish, as though his brother's touch had unlocked some hidden girlish instinct in him. For all his bearish strength one never thought of Louis' sexual propensities. He was neuter and epicene. If he had a prick it was to make water with, nothing more. One had the feeling, about Louis, that if it came to a pinch he would sacrifice his prick to make a few extra slices of
saucisson.
He would rather lose his prick than hand you a meager hors d'oeuvre.

“In Italy you eat better than this,” Joe was explaining to Mona and myself. “Better meat, better vegetables, better fruit. In Italy you have sunshine all day. And music! Everybody sing. Here everybody look sad. I don't understand. Plenty money, plenty jobs, but everybody sad. This is no country to live in . . . only good to make money. Another two-three years and I go back to Italy. I take Louis with me and we open a little restaurant. Not for money . . . just have something to do. In Italy nobody make money. Everybody poor. But goddamn, Mr. Miller . . . excuse me . . . we have good time! Plenty beautiful women . . .
plenty!
You lucky to have such a beautiful wife. She like Italy, your wife. Italians very good people. Everybody treat you right. Everybody make friends rightaway. . .”

It was in bed that night that we began to talk about Europe. “We've got to go to Europe,” Mona was saying.

“Yeah, but how?”

“I don't know, Val, but we'll find a way.”

“Do you realize how much money it takes to go to Europe?”

“That doesn't matter. If we want to go we'll raise the money somehow . . .”

We were lying flat on our backs, hands clasped behind our backs, looking straight up into the darkness—and voyaging like mad. I had boarded the Orient Express for Bagdad. It was a familiar journey to me because I had read about this trip in one of Dos Passos' books. Vienna, Budapest, Sofia, Belgrade, Athens, Constantinople . . . Perhaps if we got that far we might also get to Timbuktu. I knew a lot about Timbuktu also—from books. Mustn't forget Taormina! And that cemetery in Stambul which Pierre Loti had written about. And Jerusalem . . .

“What are you thinking about now?” I asked, nudging her gently.

“I was visiting my folks in Roumania.”

“In Roumania? Whereabouts in Roumania?”

“I don't know exactly. Somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains.”

“I had a messenger once, a crazy Dutchman, who used to write me long letters from the Carpathian Mountains. He was staying at the palace of the Queen . . .”

“Wouldn't you like to go to Africa too—Morocco, Algeria, Egypt?”

“That's just what I was dreaming about a moment ago.”

“I've always wanted to go into the desert. . . and get lost there.”

“That's funny, so have I. I'm crazy about the desert.”

Silence. Lost in the desert. . .

Somebody is talking to me. We've been having a long conversation. And I'm not in the desert any more but on Sixth Avenue under an elevated station. My friend Ulric is placing his hand on my shoulder and smiling at me reassuringly. He is repeating what he said a moment ago—that I will be happy in Europe. He talks again about Mount Aetna, about grapes,
about leisure, idleness, good food, sunshine. He drops a seed in me.

Sixteen years later on a Sunday morning, accompanied by a native of the Argentine and a French whore from Montmartre, I am strolling leisurely through a cathedral in Naples. I feel as though I have at last seen a house of worship that I would enjoy praying in. It belongs not to God or the Pope, but to the Italian people. It's a huge, barnlike place, fitted out in the worst taste, with all the trappings dear to the Catholic heart. There is plenty of floor space, empty floor space, I mean. People sail in through the various portals and walk about with the utmost freedom. They give the impression of being on a holiday. Children gambol about like lambs, some with little nosegays in their hand. People walk up to one another and exchange greetings, quite as if they were in the streets. Along the walls are statues of the martyrs in various postures; they reek of suffering. I have a strong desire to run my hand over the cold marble, as if to urge them not to suffer too much, it's indecent. As I approach one of the statues I notice out of the corner of my eye a woman all in black kneeling before a sacred object. She is the image of piety. But I can't help noticing that she is also the possessor of an exquisite ass, a musical ass, I might say. (The ass tells you everything about a woman, her character, her temperament, whether she is sanguine, morbid, gay or fickle, whether she is responsive or unresponsive, whether she is maternal or pleasure-loving, whether she is truthful or lying by nature.)

I was interested in that ass, as well as the piety in which it was smothered. I looked at it so intently that finally the owner of it turned round, her hands still raised in prayer, her lips moving as if she were chewing oats in her sleep. She gave me a look of reproach, blushed deeply, then turned her gaze back to the object of adoration, which I now observed was one of the saints, a dejected crippled martyr who seemed to be climbing up a hill with a broken back.

I respectfully moved away in search of my companions. The activity of the throng reminded me of the lobby of the Hotel Astor—and of the canvases of Uccello (that fascinating world of perspective!). It reminded me also of the Caledonian
market, London, with its vast clutter of gimcrackery. It was beginning to remind me of a lot of things, of everything, in fact, but the house of worship which it was. I half expected to see Malvolio or Mercutio enter in full tights. I saw one man, obviously a barber, who reminded me vividly of Werner Krause in
Othello.
I recognized an organ-grinder from New York whom I had once tracked to his lair behind the City Hall.

Above all I was fascinated by the tremendous Gorgonlike heads of the old men of Naples. They seemed to emerge full-blown out of the Renaissance: great lethal cabbages with fiery coals in their foreheads. Like the Urizens of William Blake's imagination. They moved about condescendingly, these animated heads, as if patronizing the nefarious Mysteries of the mundane Church and her spew of scarlet-robed pimps.

I felt very much at home. It was a
bazaar
which made sense. It was operatic, mercurial, tonsorial. The buzz-buzz at the altar was discreet and elegant, a sort of veiled boudoir atmosphere in which the priest, assisted by his gelded acolytes, washed his socks in holy water. Behind the glittering surplices were little trellised doors, such as the mountebanks used in the popular street shows of medieval times. Anything might spring out at you from those mysterious little doors. Here was the altar of confusion, bangled and diademed with baubles, smelling of grease paint, incense, sweat and dereliction. It was like the last act of a gaudy comedy, a banal play dealing with prostitution and ending in prophylactics. The performers inspired affection and sympathy; they were not sinners, they were vagrants. Two thousand years of fraud and humbug had culminated in this side show. It was all flip and tutti-frutti, a gaudy, obscene carnival in which the Redeemer, made of plaster of Paris, took on the appearance of a eunuch in petticoats. The women prayed for children and the men prayed for food to stuff the hungry mouths. Outside, on the sidewalk, were heaps of vegetables, fruits, flowers and sweets. The barbershops were wide open and little boys, resembling the progeny of Fra Angelico, stood with big fans and drove the flies away. A beautiful city, alive in every member, and
drenched with sunlight. In the background Vesuvius, a sleepy cone emitting a lazy curl of smoke. I was in Italy—I was certain of it. It was all that I had expected it to be. And then suddenly I realized that
she
was not with me, and for a moment I was saddened. Then I wondered . . . wondered about the seed and its fruition. For that night, when we went to bed hungering for Europe, something quickened in me. Years had rolled by . . . short, terrible years, in which every seed that had ever quickened seemed to be mashed to a pulp. Our rhythm had speeded up, hers in a physical way, mine in a more subtle way.
She
leaped forward feverishly, her very walk changing over into the lope of an antelope.
I
seemed to stand still, making no progress, but spinning like a top.
She
had her eyes set on the goal, but the faster she moved the farther removed became the goal.
I
knew I could never reach the goal this way. I moved my body about obediently, but always with an eye on the seed within. When I slipped and fell I fell softly, like a cat, or like a pregnant woman, always mindful of that which was growing inside me. Europe, Europe . . . it was with me always, even when we were quarreling, shouting at each other like maniacs. Like a man obsessed, I brought every conversation back to the subject which alone interested me:
Europe.
Nights when we prowled about the city, searching like alley cats for scraps of food, the cities and peoples of Europe were in my mind. I was like a slave who dreams of freedom, whose whole being is saturated with one idea: escape. Nobody could have convinced me then that if I were offered the choice between her and my dream of Europe I would choose the latter. It would have seemed utterly fantastic,
then,
to suppose that it would be she herself who would offer me this choice. And perhaps even more fantastic still that the day I would sail for Europe I would have to ask my friend Ulric for ten dollars so as to have something in my pocket on touching my beloved European soil.

That half-voiced dream in the dark, that night alone in the desert, the voice of Ulric comforting me, the Carpathian Mountains moving up from under the moon, Timbuktu, the camel bells, the smell of leather and of dry, scorched dung
(“What are you thinking of?” “I too!”), the tense, richlyfilled silence, the blank, dead walls of the tenement opposite, the fact that Arthur Raymond was asleep, that in the morning he would continue his exercises, for ever and ever, but that I had changed, that there were exits, loopholes, even though only in the imagination, all this acted like a ferment and dynamized the days, months, years that lay ahead. It dynamized my love for her. It made me believe that what I could not accomplish alone I could accomplish with her, for her, through her, because of her. She became the water sprinkler, the fertilizer, the hothouse, the mule pack, the pathfinder, the breadwinner, the gyroscope, the extra vitamin, the flame thrower, the go-getter.

From that day on things moved on greased skids. Get married? Sure, why not? Right away. Have you got the money for the license? No, but I'll borrow it. Fine. Meet you on the corner . . .

We're in the Hudson Tubes on our way to Hoboken. Going to get married there. Why Hoboken? I don't remember. Perhaps to conceal the fact that I had been married before, perhaps we were a bit ahead of the legal schedule. Anyway, Hoboken.

In the train we have a little tiff. The same old story—she's not sure that I want to marry her. Thinks I'm doing it just to please her.

A station before Hoboken she jumps out of the train. I jump out too and run after her.