The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (17 page)

Good-bye, I said, and all my thanks!

As the lift made its weary descent I kept my eyes riveted straight ahead. I had a look on my face as if rapt in thought. There was only one thought in my mind, however, and that was—when will he explode? I had a hunch that he was even more venomous toward me now—because I had been so cunning. I was as wary and alert as a cat. What, I wondered, would I do … what could I do … if suddenly, between floors, he shut the power off and turned on me? Not a peep, not a stir, out of him. We reached bottom, the gate slid open, and out I stepped … a Pinocchio with both legs burned off.

The hallway was deserted, I noticed. I made for the door, some yards away. Jim remained at his post, as if nothing had ever happened. At least, I felt that that was his attitude. Half-way to the door I turned, on the impulse, and headed back. The inscrutable expression on Jim’s face told me that he had expected me to do just that. Coming closer I saw that his face was truly a blank. Had he retired into his stone-like self—or was he lying in ambush?

Why do you hate me? I said, and I looked him square in the eye.

I don’t hate anybody, was the unexpected answer. Nothing but the muscles of his mouth had moved; even his eyeballs were fixed.

I’m sorry, I said, and made a half turn as if to march away.

I don’t hate you, he said, suddenly coming to life. I pity you! You don’t fool me. Nobody does.

An inner terror gripped me. How do you mean? I stammered.

Don’t give me words, he said. You know what I mean.

A cold shiver now ran up and down my spine. It was as if he had said: I have second sight, I can read your mind like a book.

So what? I said, amazed at my impudence.

Go home and put your mind in order, that’s what!

I was stunned. But what followed, as Mr. Larrabee had put it, was absolutely unpredictable.

Hypnotized, I watched him pull up his sleeve to reveal a horrible scar; he pulled up his pant’s leg and there were more horrible scars; then he unbuttoned his shirt. At the sight of his chest I almost fainted.

It took all that, he said, to open my eyes. Go home and set your mind straight. Go, before I strike you dead!

I turned at once and started for the door. It took all my courage not to break into a run. Some one was coming from the street. He wouldn’t strike me now—or would he? I moved at the same pace, quickening it as I neared the door.

Whew! Outside I dropped the brief case and lit myself a cig. The sweat was oozing from all pores. I debated what to do. It was cowardly to run off with my tail between my legs. And it was suicidal to return. Veteran or not, crazy or not, he meant what he said. What’s more, he had my number. That’s what burned me up. I moved away, mumbling to myself as I trudged along. Yeah, he had me dead to rights: a time waster, a faker, a glib talker, a no good son of a bitch. No one had ever brought me so low. I felt like writing Mr. Larrabee a letter telling him that no matter how my words had impressed him everything about me was false, dishonest, worthless. I became so indignant with myself that my whole body broke out in a rash. Had a worm appeared before me and repeated Jim’s words, I would have bowed my head in shame and said: You’re absolutely right, Mr. Worm. Let me get down beside you and grovel in the earth.

At Borough Hall I grabbed a coffee and sandwich, then made instinctively for The Star, an old time burlesque house that had seen better days. The show had already started but no matter: there was never anything new either in the way of jokes or in the way of ass. As I entered the theatre the memory of my first visit to it came back. My old friend Al Burger and his bosom pal, Frank Schofield, had invited me to go with them. We must have been nineteen or twenty at the time. What I particularly recollected was the warmth of friendship which this Frank Schofield exuded. I had met him only two or three limes before. To Frank I was something very very special. He loved to hear me talk, hung on every word I uttered. In fact, everything I said fascinated him for some reason. As for Frank, he was one of the world’s most ordinary fellows, but brimming with affection. He had a mammoth figure—weighed then almost three hundred pounds—drank like a fish and was never without a cigar in his mouth. He laughed easily, and when he did his stomach shook like jello. Why don’t you come and live with us? he used to say. We’ll take care of you. It makes me feel good just to look at you. Simple words, but honest and sincere. Not one of my boon companions at that time possessed his homely qualities. No worm had eaten into his soul yet. He was innocent, tender, generous to a fault.

But why was he so fond of me? That’s what I asked myself as I groped my way to a seat in the pit. Rapidly I went over the roster of my bosom friends, asking myself what each and every one of them really thought of me. And then I thought of a school mate, Lester Faber, whose lips would curl into a sneer each time we met, which was every day. No one in the class liked him, nor the teachers either. He was born sour. Fuck him! I thought. Wonder what he does for a living now? And Lester Prink, what had become of him? Suddenly I saw the whole class, as we looked in that photo taken on graduation day. I could recall every one of them, their names, height, weight, standing, where they lived, how they spoke, everything about them. Strange that I never ran into any of them…

The show was frightful; I almost fell asleep in the middle of it. But it was warm and cosy. Besides, I was in no hurry to get anywhere. There were seven, eight or nine hours to kill before the two of them would return.

The cold had moderated when I stepped out of the theatre. A light flurry of snow was falling. Some inexplicable urge directed my steps toward a gun shop up the street. There was one revolver in the window which I invariably stopped to look at when passing. It was a thoroughly murderous looking weapon.

In customary fashion I stopped and pressed my nose against the show window. A hearty slap on the back made me jump. I thought a gun had gone off. As I turned round a hearty voice exclaimed: What in the devil are you. doing here? Henry, my boy, how are you?

It was Tony Marella. He had a long extinct cigar in his mouth, his soft hat was jauntily pitched, and his small beady eyes were twinkling as of old.

Well, well, and all that. The usual exchanges, a few tender reminiscences, then the question: And what are you doing now?

In a few words I emptied my bag of woes.

That’s too bad, Henry. Jesus, I never suspected you were up against it. Why didn’t you let me know? I’m always good for a touch, you know. He put an arm around me. What do you say we have a little drink? Maybe I can be of help.

I tried to tell him that I was beyond helping. You’d only be wasting your time, I said.

Come, come, don’t give me that, said he. I know you from way back. Don’t you know that I always admired you—and envied you? We all have our ups and downs. Here, here’s a friendly little joint. Let’s go in and get something to eat and drink.

It was a bar (hidden from the street) where he was evidently well known and in good standing. I had to be introduced all around, even to the shoeshine boy. An old school-mate, he said, as he presented me to one after another. A writer, by God! What do you know? He hands me a champagne cocktail. Here, let’s drink on it! Joe, what about a nice roastbeef sandwich, with lots of gravy … and some raw onions. How does that sound, Henry? Christ, you don’t know how glad I am to see you again. I’ve often wondered about you, what you were doing. Thought maybe you had skipped to Europe. Funny, eh? And you’ve been hiding out right under my nose.

He went on like this, happy as a lark, passing out more drinks, buying cigars, inquiring about the racing results, greeting newcomers and introducing me afresh, borrowing cash of the bartender, making telephone calls, and so on. A little dynamo. A good egg, any one could see that at a glance. The friend of every man, and bubbling over with joy and kindness.

Presently, with one elbow on the bar and an arm around my shoulder, he said, dropping his voice: Listen, Henry, let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ve got a cushy job now. If you like, I could make a place for you. It’s nothing to get steamed up about but it may do to tide you over. Till you find something better,! mean. What do you say?

Sure, I said. What is it?

A job in the Park Department, he explained. He was secretary to the Commissioner. Which meant that he, Tony, took care of the routine while the big shot made the rounds. Politics. A dirty game, he confided. Some one always waiting to stab you in the back.

It won’t be to-morrow or the next day, he continued. I have to play the game, you know. But I’ll put you on the list immediately. It may take a month before I send for you. Can you hold out that long?

I think so, said I.

Don’t worry about money, he said. I can lend you whatever you need till then.

Don’t! I said. I’ll manage all right…

You’re a funny guy, he said, squeezing my arm. You don’t have to be shy with me. With me it comes and goes … like that! In this racket you’ve got be well heeled. There are no poor politicians, you know that. How we get it, that’s another matter. So far, I’ve been on the level. Not easy, either … Okay, then. If you won’t take anything now you know where I am when you want it. Any time, remember that!

I grasped his hand.

How about another drink before we go?

I nodded.

Oh, there’s something I overlooked. I may have to put you down as a grave-digger … to begin with. Do you mind? Just for a week or so. You won’t have to break your back, I’ll see to that. Then I’ll move you into the office. You’ll take a load off my back. Say, but won’t I be able to make good use of you! You’re a born letter writer—and that’s half my job.

On the way out … Stick to the writing, Henry. You were born to it. I’d never be in this racket if I had your talent. I had to fight for everything I got. You know, ‘the little dago’.

We’re shaking hands … You won’t let me down now? Promise! And say hello to your dad for me. So long now!

So long, Tony!

I watched him hail a cab and hop in. I waved again.

What luck! Tony Marella, no less. An just when I though the earth was ready to receive me!

8.

Strange how things fall out sometimes. You may curse and pray, gibber and whimper, and nothing happens. Then, just when you’re reconciled to the inevitable, a trap door opens, Saturn slinks off to another vector, and the grand problem ceases to be. Or so it seems.

It was in this simple, unexpected way that Stasia informed me one day, during Mona’s absence, that she was going to leave us. If I hadn’t had it from her own lips I wouldn’t have believed it.

I was so stunned, and so delighted at the same time, that I didn’t even inquire why she was leaving. And she, apparently, was in no hurry to volunteer the information. That she was fed up with Mona’s theatrical ways, as she hinted, was hardly sufficient reason for this sudden break.

Would you mind taking a walk with me? she asked. I’d like to say a few things to you in private before I go. My bag is packed.

As we left the house she asked if I had any objection to strolling across the bridge. None at all, I replied. I would have consented to walk to White Plains, if she had suggested it.

The fact that she was leaving awakened my sympathies. She was a strange creature, but not a bad one. Stopping to light a cigarette, I sized her up, detachedly. She had the air of a Confederate soldier back from the war. There was a forlorn look in her eyes, but it was not devoid of courage. She belonged nowhere, that was obvious.

We walked in silence for a block or two. Then, as we made the approach to the bridge, it oozed out of her. Softly she spoke and with feeling, change. As if confiding in a dog. straight ahead, as if blazing a trail.

She was saying that, all in all, I hadn’t been as cruel as I might have been. It was the situation which was cruel, not me. It would never have worked out, not even if we were a thousand times better than we were. She should have known better. She admitted that there had been a lot of play acting, too. She loved Mona, yes, but she wasn’t desperately in love. Never had been. It was Mona who was desperate. Besides, it wasn’t love that bound them as much as a need for companionship. They were lonely souls, both of them. In Europe it might have worked out differently. But it was too late for that now. Some day she would go there on her own, she hoped.

But where will you go now? I asked.

To California probably. Where else?

Why not to Mexico?

That was a possibility, she agreed, but later. First she had to pull herself together. It hadn’t been easy for her, this chaotic bohemian life. Fundamentally she was a simple person. Her one problem was how to get along with others. What had disturbed her most about our way of life, she wanted me to know, was that it gave her little chance to work, I’ve got to do things with my hands, she blurted out. Even if it’s digging ditches. I want to be a sculptor, not a painter or a poet. She hastened to add that I should not judge her by the puppets she had turned out—she had made them only to please Mona.

Then she said something which sounded to my ears like high treason. She said that Mona knew absolutely nothing about art, that she was incapable of distinguishing between a good piece of work and a bad one. Which doesn’t really matter, or rather wouldn’t matter, if only she had the courage to admit it. But she hasn’t. She must pretend that she knows everything, understands everything. I hate pretense. That’s one of the reasons why I don’t get along with people.

She paused to let this sink in. ! don’t know how you stand it! You’re full of nasty tricks, you do vile things now and then, and you’re terribly prejudiced and unfair some times, but at least you’re honest. You never pretend to be other than you are. Whereas Mona … well, there’s no telling who she is or what she is. She’s a walking theatre. Wherever she goes, whatever she’s doing, no matter whom she’s talking to, she’s on stage. It’s sickening … But I’ve told you all this before. You know it as well as I do.

An ironic smile slid over her face. Sometimes … She hesitated a moment. Sometimes I wonder how she behaves in bed. I mean, does she fake that too?