CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE
following day, while rummaging through the waste basket in search of a missing
letter, I ran across a crumpled letter which the Commissioner had obviously
tossed there in disgust. The handwriting
was thin and shaky, as if written by an old man, but legible despite the
elaborate curlicues he delighted in employing.
I took one glance at it, then slipped it into
my pocket to read at leisure.
It was
this letter, ridiculous and pathetic in its way, which saved me from eating my
heart out. If the Commissioner had
thrown it there then it must have been at the bidding of my guardian angel.
“Honourable
Sir …” it began, and with the very next words a weight was lifted from me. I found not only that I could laugh as of old, I found that I could laugh at myself, which was vastly
more important.
“Honourable
Sir: I hope that you are well and enjoying good health during this very
changeable weather that we are now having.
I am quite well myself at the present time and I am glad to say so.”
Then,
without further ado, the author of this curious document launched into his
arborico-solipsistic language
Here are his words….
“I wish
that you would do me a very kind-hearted and a very special favour and kindly
have the men of the Park Department go around now and start by the Borough
Lines of Queens and King’s Counties and work outward easterly and back westerly
and likewise northerly and southerly and remove the numerous dead and dying trees,
trees all open at the base part and in the trunk part and trees bending and
leaning over and ready to fall down and do damage to human life, limb and
property, and to give all the good trees both large and small sizes an extra
good, thorough, proper, systematic and symmetrical pruning, trimming and paring
off from the base to the very top parts and all through.
“I wish
that you would do me a very kind-hearted and very special favour and kindly
have the men of the Park Department greatly reduce all the top-heavy and
overgrown trees in height to a height of about twenty-five feet high and to
have all the long boughs and branches shortened considerably in the length and
all parts of the trees greatly thinned out from the base to the very top parts
and thereby give a great deal more light, more natural light, more air, more
beauty, and very much more safety to the pedestrians, the general thoroughfares
and to the surroundings along by the streets, avenues, places, roadways, roads,
highways, boulevards, terraces, parkways (streets
called courts, lanes, etc.) and by the Parks inside and outside.
“I would
greatly, kindly and very urgently request that the boughs and branches be
pruned, trimmed and pared off at the distance of from twelve to fifteen feet
from the front, side and rear walls of all houses and other buildings of every
description and not allow them to come in contact with them as a great many of
them are very much marred by them coming in contact with them, and thereby give
a great deal more light, more natural light, more air, more beauty and very
much more safety.
“I wish
that you would kindly have the men of the Park Department prune, trim and pare
off the boughs and branches at a distance of from twelve to sixteen feet above
the sidewalks, flaggings, grounds, kerbs, etc. and not allow them to keep
drooping away down low as a great many of them are now doing and thereby give
plenty of height to walk beneath the same …”
It went on
and on in this vein, always detailed and explicit, the style never
varying. One more paragraph –
“I wish
that you would kindly have the boughs and branches pruned, trimmed and pared
off and down considerably below the roofs of the houses and other buildings and
not allow them to protrude over, lap over, lay over, cross over or come in
contact with the houses and other buildings and to have the boughs and branches
greatly separated between each and every tree and not allow the boughs and
branches to lap over, lay over, cross over, entwine, hug, cluster or come in
contact with the adjoining trees and thereby give a great deal more light, more
natural light, more air, more beauty and very much more safety to the
pedestrians, the thoroughfares and to the general surroundings around by all
pats of Queens County, New York….”
As I say, upon finishing the letter I felt thoroughly
relaxed, at ease with the world, and extremely indulgent toward my own precious
self. It was as if some of that light –
that “more natural light” – had invaded my being. I was no longer enveloped in a fog of
despair. There was more air, more light,
more beauty to all the surroundings: my inner
surroundings.
Come
Saturday noon therefore, I made straight for Manhattan Isle; at Times Square I
rose to the surface, snatched a quick bite at the Automat, then swung my prow
round in the direction of the nearest all-out dance hall. It didn’t occur to me that I was repeating a
pattern which had brought me to my present low state. Only when I pushed my way through the immense
portals of the Itchigumi Dance Palace on the ground floor of a demented-looking
building this side of the Café Mozambique did it come over me that it was in a
mood similar to the one which now claimed me that I had staggered up the steep
rickety stairs of another Broadway dance hall and there found the beloved. Since those days my mind was utterly free of
these pay as you go joints and the angels of mercy who soberly fleece their
sex-starved patrons. All I thought of
now was a few hours of escape from boredom, a few hours of forgetfulness – and
to get it as cheaply as possible. There
was no fear in me of falling in love again or even of getting a lay, though
that I needed bad. I merely craved to
become like any ordinary mortal, a jellyfish, if you like, in the ocean of
drift. I asked for nothing more than to
be swished and sloshed about in an eddying pool of fragrant flesh under a
subaqueous rainbow of subdued and intoxicating lights.
Entering
the place I felt like a farmer come to town.
Immediately I was dazzled, dazzled by the sea of
faces, by the fetid warmth radiating from hundreds of over-excited bodies, by
the blare of the orchestra, by the kaleidoscopic whirl of lights. Everyone was keyed to fever pitch, it
seemed. Everyone looked intent and
alert, intensely intent, intensely alert.
The air crackled with this electric desire, this all-consuming
concentration. A thousand different
perfumes clashed with one another, with the heat of the hall, with the sweat
and perspiration, the fever, the lust of the inmates, for they were very
definitely, it seemed to me, inmates of one kind or another. Inmates perhaps of the
vaginal vestibule of love. Icky
inmates, advancing upon one another with lips parted, with dry, hot lips,
hungry lips, lips that trembled, that begged, that whimpered, that beseeched,
that chewed and macerated other lips.
Sober, too, all of them. Stone
sober. Too sobers, indeed. Sober as criminals about to pull off a
job. All converging upon one another in
a huge, swirling cake mould, the coloured lights playing over their faces,
their busts, their haunches, cutting them to ribbons in which they became
entangled and enmeshed, yet always skilfully extricating themselves as they
whirled about, body to body, cheek to cheek, lip to lip.
I had
forgotten what it was like, this dance mania.
Too much alone, too close to my grief, too ravaged by
thought. Here was abandon with
its nameless face and prune-whipped dreams.
Here was the land of twinkling toes, of satiny buttocks, of let your
hair down, Miss Victoria-Nyanza, for
Walking up
and down beside the Hershey Almond bars stacked one upon another like precious
ingots, I rub against the pack. A
thousand smiles are raining from every direction; I lift my face as if to catch
the shimmering dewdrops dispersed by a gentle breeze. Smiles, smiles. As if it weren’t life and death, a race to
the womb and back again. Flutter and
frou-frou, camphor and fish balls, Omega oil … wings spread full preen, limbs
bare to the touch, palms moist, foreheads glistening, lips parched, tongues
hanging out, teeth gleaming like the advertisements, eyes bright, roving,
stripping one bare … piercing, penetrating eyes, some searching for gold, some
for fuck, some to kill, but all bright, shamelessly, innocently bright like the
lion’s red maw, and pretending, yes, pretending, that it’s a Saturday
afternoon, a floor like any other floor, a cunt’s cunt, no tickee no fuckee,
buy me, take me, squeeze me, all’s well in Itchigumi, don’t step on me, isn’t it warm, yes, I love it, I do
love it, bite me again, harder, harder …
Weaving in and out, sizing them up – height, weight,
texture – rubbing flanks together, measuring bosoms, bottoms, waists, studying
hair-dos, noses, stances, devouring mouths half open, closing others … weaving,
sidling, pushing, rubbing, and everywhere a sea of faces, a sea of flesh carved
by scimitar strokes of light, the whole pack glued together in one vast
terpsichorean stew. And over this hot
conglomerate flesh whirling in the cake bowl the smear of brasses, the wail of
trombones, the coagulating saxophones, the piercing trumpets, all like liquid
fire going straight to the glands. On
the sidelines, standing like thirsty sentinels, huge upturned jugs of orangeade,
lemonade, sarsaparilla, coca-cola, root beer, the milk of she-asses and the
pulp of wilted anemones. Above it all
the almost inaudible hum of the ventilators sucking up the sour, rancid odour
of flesh and perfume, passing it out over the heads of the passing throngs in
the street.
Find
someone! That was all I could
think. But whom? I milled around and milled around, but
nothing suited me. Some were wonderful,
ravishing – as ass, so to say. I wanted
something more. It was a bazaar, a
bazaar of flesh – why not pick and choose?
Most of them had the empty look of the empty souls they were. And why not, handling nothing but goods,
money, labels, buttons, dishes, bills of lading, day in and day out? Should they have personality too? Some, like rapacious birds of the air, had
that nondescript look of wrack tossed in by a storm – neither
sluts, whores, shop girls nor griseldas.
Some stood like wilted flowers or like canes draped in wet towels. Some, pure as chickweed, looked as though
they were hoping to be raped, but not seriously damaged. The good live bait was on the floor,
wiggling, wriggling, their eloquent haunches gleaming
like moiré.
In a
corner beside the ticket booth the hostesses were collected. Bright and fresh they were, as if they had
just stepped out of the tub. All
beautifully coiffed, beautifully frocked. Waiting to be bought and,
if luck would have it, wined and dined.
Waiting for the right guy to come along, that jaded millionaire who in a
moment of forgetfulness might propose marriage.
Standing
at the rail I surveyed them coolly. If
it were the Yoshiwara now … If when you glanced their way they would undress,
make a few obscene gestures, call to you in a raucous voice. But the Itchigumi follows a different
programme. It suggests that you very
kindly and sincerely pick the flower of your choice, lead her to the centre of
the floor, bill and coo, nibble and gobble, wiggle and woggle, buy more
tickets, take girl have drink, speak correctly, come again next week, choose ‘nother
pretty flower, thank you kindly, good night.
The music
stops for a few moments and the dancers melt like snowflakes. A girl in a pale yellow dress is gliding back
to the slave booth. She looks Cuban. Rather short, well built, and with a mouth
that’s insatiable.
I wait a
moment to give her a chance to dry off, as it were, then
approach. She looks
eighteen and fresh from the jungle.
Ebony and ivory. Her greeting is warm and natural – no
ready-made smile, no cash-register business.
She’s new at the game, I find, and she is a Cuban. (How wonderful!)
In short, she doesn’t mind too much being pawed over, chewed to bits, et cetera; she’s still mixing pleasure
with business.
Pushed to
the centre of the floor, wedged in, we remain there moving like caterpillars,
the censor fast asleep, the lights very low, the music
creeping like a paid whore from chromosome to chromosome. The orgasm arrives and she pulls away for
fear her dress will be stained.
Back at
the barricade I’m trembling like a leaf.
All I can smell now is cunt, cunt, cunt. No use dancing any more this afternoon. Must come again next
Saturday. Why not?
And that’s
exactly what I do. On the third Saturday
I run into a newcomer at the salve booth.
She has a marvellous body, and her face, chipped here and there like an
ancient statue, excites me. She had a
trifle more intelligence than the others, which is no detriment, and she’s not
hungry for money. That is simply extraordinary.
When she’s
not working I take her to a movie or to a cheap dance hall in some other
neighbourhood. Makes no difference to
her where we go. Just bring a little
booze along, that’s all. Not that she
wants to go blotto, no … it makes things smoother, she thinks. She’s a country girl from up-State.
Never any tension in her presence. Laughs easily, enjoys
everything. When I take her home – she
lives in a boarding house – we have to stand in the hallway and make as best we
can. A nerve-racking
business, what with boarders coming and going all night long.
Sometimes,
on leaving her, I ask myself how come I never hitched up with this sort, the
easy-going type, instead of the difficult ones? This gal hasn’t an ounce of ambition; nothing
bothers her, nothing worries her. She
doesn’t even worry about “getting caught”, as the saying goes. (Probably skilful with the
darning needle.)
It doesn’t
take much thinking to realize that the reason I’m immune is because I’d be
bored stiff in no time. Anyway, there’s
little danger of my linking up with her in solid fashion. I’m a boarder myself, one not above pilfering
change from the landlady’s purse.
I said she
had a marvellous physique, this fly-by-night.
It’s true. She was full and
supple, limber, smooth as a seal. When I
ran my hands over her buttocks it was enough to make me forget all my problems,
Nietzsche, Stirner, Bakunin as well. As for her mug, if it wasn’t exactly
beautiful, it was attractive and arresting.
Perhaps her nose was a trifle long, a trifle thick, but it suited her
personality, suited that laughing cunt of hers, is what I mean. But the moment I began to make comparison
between her body and Mona’s I knew it was useless to go into it. Whatever flesh and blood qualities she had,
this one, they remained flesh and blood.
There was nothing more to her than what you could see and touch, hear
and smell. With Mona it was another
story entirely. Any portion of her body
served to inflame me. Her personality
was as much in her left teat, so to speak, as in her little right toe. The flesh spoke from every quarter, every
angle. Strangely, hers was not a perfect
body either. But it was melodious and
provocative. Her body echoed her moods. She had no need to flaunt it or fling it
about; she had only to inhabit it, to be
it.
There was
also this about Mona’s body – it was constantly changing. How well I remember those days when we lived
with the doctor and his family in the Bronx, when we always took a shower
together, soaped one another, hugged one another, fucked as best we could –
under the shower – while the cockroaches streamed up and down the walls like
armies in full rout. Her body then,
though I loved it, was out of line. The
flesh drooped from her waist like folds, the breasts hung loose,
the buttocks were too flat, too boyish.
Yet that same body, draped in a stiff poker dot Swiss dress, had all the
charm and allure of a soubrette’s. The
neck was full, a columnar neck, I always called it, and it suited the rich,
dark, vibrant voice which issued from it.
As the months and years went by this body went through all manner of
changes. At times it grew taut, slender,
drum-like. Almost too taut, too slender. And then it would change again, each change
registering her inner transformation, her fluctuations, her moods, longings and
frustrations. But always it remained
provocative – fully alive, responsive, tingling, pulsing with love, tenderness,
passion. Each day it seemed to speak a
new language.
When power
then could the body of another exert? At the most only a feeble, transitory one. I had found the body, no other was necessary.
No other would ever fully satisfy me.
No, the laughing kind was not for me.
One penetrated that sort of body like a knife going through
cardboard. What I craved was the
elusive. (The elusive basilisk,
is how I put it to myself.) The elusive and the insatiable at the same time. A body like Mona’s own, which, the more one
possessed it the more one became possessed.
A body which could bring with it all the woes of
I tried another
dance hall. Everything was perfect –
music, lights, girls, even the ventilators.
But never did I feel more loneliness, more desolation. In desperation I danced with one after
another, all responsive, yielding, ductile, malleable, all gracious, lovely,
satiny and dusky, but a despair had come over me, a
weight which crushed me. As the
afternoon wore on a feeling of nausea seized me. The music particularly revolted me. How many thousand times had I heard these
pale, feeble, utterly idiotic tunes with their sickening words of
endearment! The
offspring of pimps and narks who had never known the pangs of love. “Embryonic,” I kept repeating to myself. The music of embryos made for embryos. The sloth calling to its
mate in five feet of sewer water; the weasel weeping for his lost one and
drowning in his own pipi. Romance, of the
copulation of the violet and the stink wort. I love
you! Written on
fine, silky toilet paper stroked by a thousand superfine combs. Rhymes invented by mangy pederasts; lyrics by
Albumen and his mates. Pfui!
Fleecing
the place I thought of the African records I once owned, thought of the blood
heat, steady and incessant, which animated their music. Only the steady, recurring, pounding rhythm
of sex – but how refreshing, how pure, how innocent!
I was in
such a state that I felt like pulling out my cock, right in the middle of
Broadway, and jerking off. Imagine a sex
maniac pulling out his prick – on a Saturday afternoon! – in
full view of the Automat!
Fuming and
raging, I strolled over to
Giving way
to a feeling of delicious drowsiness, I was on the point of closing my eyes
when out of nowhere a ravishing young woman appeared and seated herself on a
knoll just above me. Perhaps she was
unaware that, in the position she had assumed, her
private parts were fully exposed to view.
Perhaps she didn’t care. Perhaps
it was her way of smiling at me, or winking.
There was nothing brazen or vulgar about her; she was like some great
soft creature of the air who had come to rest from her
flight.
She was so
utterly oblivious of my presence, so still, so wrapped in reverie, that
incredible as it may seem, I closed my eyes and dozed off. The next thing I knew was I [was] no longer
on this earth. Just as
it takes time to grow accustomed to the after-world, so it was in my dream. The strangest thing to get used to was the
fact that nothing I wished to do required the least effort. If I wished to run, whether slow or fast, I
did so without losing breath. If I
wanted to jump a lake or skip over a hill, I simply jumped. If I wanted to fly, I flew. There was nothing more to it than that,
whatever I attempted.
After a
time I realized that I was not alone.
Someone was at my side, like a shadow, moving with the same ease and
assurance as myself. My
guardian angel, most likely.
Though I encountered nothing resembling earthly creatures, I found myself
conversing, effortlessly again, with whatever crossed my path. If it was an animal, I spoke to it in my own
tongue; if it was a tree, I spoke in the language of the tree; if a rock, I
spoke as a rock. I attributed this gift
of tongues to the presence of the being which accompanied me.
But to
what realm was I being escorted? And for what end?
Slowly I
became aware that I was bleeding, that indeed I was a mass of wounds, from head
to foot. It was then that, seized with
fright, I swooned away. When at last I
opened my eyes I saw to my astonishment that the Being who had accompanied me
was tenderly bathing my wounds, anointing my body with oil. Was I at the point of death? Was it the Angel of Mercy whose figure was
solicitously bent over me? Or had I
already crossed the Great Divine?
Imploringly
I gazed into the eyes of my Comforter.
The ineffable look of compassion which illuminated her features
reassured me. I was no longer concerned
to know whether I was still of this world or not. A feeling of peace invaded my being, and
again I closed my eyes. Slowly and
steadily a new vigour poured into my limbs; except for a strange feeling of
emptiness in the region of the heart I felt completely restored.
It was
after I had opened my eyes and found that I was alone, though not deserted, not
abandoned that instinctively I raised a hand and placed it over my heart. To my horror there was a deep hole where the
heart should have been. A hole from which no blood flowed. “Then I am
dead,” I murmured. Yet it believed it
not.
At this
strange moment, dead but not dead, the doors of memory swung open and down
through the corridors of time I beheld that which no man should be permitted to
see until he is ready to give up the ghost: I saw in every phase and moment of
his pitiful weakness the utter wretch I had been, the blackguard, nothing less,
who had striven so vainly and ignominiously to protect his miserable little
heart. I saw that it never had been
broken, as I imagined, but that, paralysed by fear, it had shrunk almost to
nothingness. I saw that the grievous
wounds which had brought me low had all been received in a senseless effort to
prevent this shrivelled heart from breaking.
The heart itself had never been touched; it had dwindled from disuse.
It was
gone now, this heart, taken from me, no doubt, by the Angle of Mercy. I had been healed and restored so that I
might live on in death as I had never lived in life. Vulnerable no longer, what need was there for
a heart?
Lying
there prone, with all my strength and vigour returned,
the enormity of my fate smote me like a rock.
The sense of the utter emptiness of existence overwhelmed me. I had achieved invulnerability, it was mine
forever, but life – if this was life – had lost all meaning. My lips moved as if in prayer but the feeling
to express anguish failed me. Heartless,
I had lost the power to communicate, even with my Creator.
Now, once
again, the Angel appeared before me. In
her hands, cupped like a chalice, she held the poor, shrunken semblance of a
heart which was mine. Bestowing upon me
a look of the utmost compassion, she blew upon this dead-looking ember until it
swelled and filled with blood, until it palpitated between her fingers like a
live, human heart.
Restoring
it to its place, her lips moved as if pronouncing the benediction, but no sound
issued forth. My transgressions had been
forgiven; I was free to sin again, free to burn with the flame of the spirit. But in that moment I knew, and would never,
never forget, that it is the heart which rules, the heart which binds and
protects. Nor would it ever did, this heart, for its keeping was in greater hands.
What joy
now possessed me! What complete and
absolute trust!
Rising to
my feet, a new being entire, I put forth my arms to embrace the world. Nothing had changed; it was the world I had
always known. But I saw it now with
other eyes. I no longer sought to escape
it, to shun its ills, or alter it in any least way. I was fully of it and one with it. I had come through the valley of the shadow
of death; I was no longer ashamed to be human, all-too-human.
I had
found my place. I belonged. My place was in the world, in the midst of
death and corruption. For companions I
had the sun, the moon, the stars. My heart, cleansed of its iniquities, had
lost all fear; it ached now to offer itself to the first comer. Indeed, I had the impression that I was all
heart, a heart which could never be broken, nor even wounded, since it was forever
inseparable from that which had given it birth.
And so, as
I walked forward and onward into the thick of the world, there where full havoc
had been wreaked and panic alone reigned, I cried out with all the fervour
which my soul possessed – “Take heart, O brothers and sisters! Take heart!”