The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (31 page)

A composer. A wonderful person, Val. You’d adore him.

Any one else?

Marcel Duchamp. You know who he is, of course?

I should say I do. What was he like—as a person?

The most civilized man I ever met, was her prompt reply.

That’s saying a great deal.

I know it, Val, but it’s the truth. She went on to tell me of others she had met, artists I had never heard of … Hans Reichel, Tihanyi, Michonze, all painters. As she talked I was making a mental note of that hotel she had stopped at in Vienna—Hotel Muller, am Graben. If I ever got to Vienna I’d have a look at the hotel register some day and see what name she had registered under. You never visited Napoleon’s Tomb, I suppose? No, but we did get to Malmaison. And I almost saw an execution.

You didn’t miss very much, I guess, did you? What a pity, I thought, as she rambled on, that talks like this happened so rarely. What I relished especially was the broken, kaleidoscopic nature of such talks. Often, in the pauses between remarks, I would make mental answers wholly at variance with the words on my lips. An additional spice, of course, was contributed by the atmosphere of the room, the books lying about, the droning of a fly, the position of her body, the comfortable feel of the couch. There was nothing to be established, posited or maintained. If a wall crumbled it crumbled. Thoughts were tossed out like twigs into a babbling brook. Russia, is the road still smoking under your wheels? Do the bridges thunder as you cross them? Answers? What need for answers? Ah, you horses! What horses! What sense in foaming at the mouth?

Getting ready to hit the sack I suddenly recalled that I had seen MacGregor that morning. I made mention of it as She was climbing over me to slide between the sheets.

I hope you didn’t give him our address, she said.

We had no words. He didn’t see me.

That’s good, she said, laying hold of my prick.

What’s good?

That he didn’t see you.

I thought you meant something else.

14.

Often when I stepped out for a breath of fresh air I would drop in on Sid Essen to have a chat with him. Only once did I see a customer enter the place. Winter or Summer it was dark inside and cool—just the right temperature for preserving stiffs. The two show windows were crammed with shirts faded by the sun and covered with fly specks.

He was usually in the rear of the store, reading under a dim electric bulb suspended from the ceiling by a long cord from which dangled sheets of tanglefoot fly-paper. He had made himself a comfortable seat by mounting a car seat on two packing boxes. Beside the boxes was a spittoon which he made use of when he chewed his baccy. Usually it was a filthy pipe he had between his teeth, sometimes an Owl cigar. The big heavy cap he removed only when he went to bed. His coat collar was always white with dandruff and when he blew his nose, which he did frequently—like an elephant trumpeting—he made use of a blue bandanna kerchief a yard wide.

On the counter near by were piles of books, magazines and newspapers. He switched from one to the other in accordance with his mood. Beside this reading matter there was always a box of peanut brittle which he dove into when he got excited. It was obvious, from his girth, that he was a hearty eater. His wife, he told me several times, was a divine cook. It was her most attractive side, from all I gathered. Though he always supplemented this by saying how well read she was.

No matter what time of the day I dropped in he always brought out a bottle. Just a snifter, he would say, flourishing a flask of schnaps or a bottle of vodka. I’d take a drink to please him. If I made a face he’d say—Don’t like it much, do you? Why don’t you try a drop of rye?

One morning, over a tumbler of rye, he repeated his desire to teach me to drive. Three lessons is all you’ll need, he said. There’s no sense in letting the car stand idle. Once you get the hang of it you’ll be crazy about it. Look, why not go for a spin with me Saturday afternoon? I’ll get some one to mind the store.

He was so eager, so insistent, that I couldn’t refuse.

Come Saturday I met him at the garage. The big four-door sedan was parked at the curb. One look at it and I knew it was too much for me. However, I had to go through with it. I took my place at the wheel, manipulated the gears, got acquainted with the gas pedal and the brakes. A brief lesson. More instruction was to follow once we were out of town.

At the wheel Reb became another person. King now. Wherever it was we were heading for it was at top speed. My thighs were aching before we were half-way there, from braking.

You see, he said, taking both hands off the wheel to gesitculate, there’s nothing to it. She runs by herself. He took his foot off the gas pedal and demonstrated the use of the hand throttle. Just like running a locomotive.

On the outskirts of the city we stopped here and there to collect rent money. He owned a number of houses here and elsewhere farther out. All in run-down neighborhoods. All occupied by Negro families. One had to collect every week, he explained. Colored people didn’t know how to handle money.

In a vacant lot near one of these shacks he gave me further instruction. This time how to turn round, how to stop suddenly, how to park. And how to back up. Very important, backing up, he said.

The strain of it had me sweating in no time. Okay, he said, let’s get going. We’ll hit the speedway soon, then I’ll let her out. She goes like the wind—you’ll see … Oh, by the way, if ever you get panicky and don’t know what to do, just shut off the motor and slam on the brakes.

We came to the speedway, his face beaming now. He pulled his cap down over his eyes. Hang on! he said, and phttt! we were off. It seemed to me that we were hardly touching the ground. I glanced at the speedometer: eighty-five. He gave her more gas. She can do a hundred without feeling it. Don’t worry, I’ve got her in hand.

I said nothing, just braced myself and half closed my eyes. When we turned off the speedway I suggested that he stop a few minutes and let me stretch my legs.

Fun, wasn’t it? he shouted.

You betcha.

Some Sunday, he said, after we collect the rents, I’ll take you to a restaurant I know, where they make delicious ducklings. Or we could go down on the East Side, to a Polish place. Or how about some Jewish cooking? Anything you say. It’s so good to have your company.

In Long Island City we made a detour to buy some provisions: herring, smoked white fish, begels, lachs, sour pickles, corn bread, sweet butter, honey, pecans, walnuts and niggertoes, huge red onions, garlic, kasha, and so on.

If we don’t do anything else we eat well, he said. Good food, good music, good talk—what else does one need?

A good wife, maybe, I said rather thoughtlessly.

I’ve got a good wife, only we’re temperamentally unsuited to one another. I’m too common for her. Too much of a roustabout.

You don’t strike me that way, said I.

I’m pulling in my horns … getting old, I guess. Once I was pretty handy with my dukes. That got me into heaps of trouble. I used to gamble a lot too. Bad, if you have a wife like mine. By the way, do you ever play the horses? I still place a few bets now and then. I can’t promise to make you a millionaire but I can always double your money for you. Let me know any time; your money’s safe with me, remember that.

We were pulling into Greenpoint. The sight of the gas tanks provoked a sentimental twinge. Now and then a church right out of Russia. The street names became more and more familiar.

Would you mind stopping in front of 181 Devoe Street? I asked.

Sure, why not? Know some one there?

Used to. My first sweetheart. I’d like to have one look at the house, that’s all.

Automatically he came down hard on the gas pedal. A stop light stared us in the face. He went right through. Signs mean nothing to me, he said, but don’t follow my example.

At 181 I got out, took my hat off (as if visiting a grave) and approached the railing in front of the grass plot. I looked up at the parlor floor windows; the shades were down, as always. My heart began to go clip-clop the same as years ago when, looking up at the windows, I hoped and prayed to catch sight of her shadow moving about. Only for a brief moment or two would I stand there, then off again. Sometimes I’d walk around the block three or four times—just in case. (You poor bugger, I said to myself, you’re still walking around that block.)

As I turned back to the car the gate in the basement clicked. An elderly woman stuck her head out. I went up to her and, almost tremblingly, I asked if any of the Giffords still lived in the neighborhood.

She looked at me intently—as if she had seen an apparition, it seemed to me—then replied: Heavens no! They moved away years ago.

That froze me.

Why, she said, did you know them?

One of them, yes, but I don’t suppose she’d remember me. Una was her name. Do you know what’s become of her?

They went to Florida. (They, she said. Not she.)

Thanks. Thank you very much! I doffed my hat, as if to a Sister of Mercy.

As I put my hand on the car door she called out: Mister! Mister, if you’d like to know more about Una there’s a lady down the block could tell you…

Never mind, I said, wit’s not important.

Tears were welling up, stupid though it was.

What’s the matter? said Reb.

Nothing, nothing. Memories, that’s all.

He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a flask I took a swig of the remedy for everything; it was pure fire water. I gasped.

It never fails, he said. Feel better now?

You bet. And the next moment I found myself saying—Christ! To think one can still feel these things. It beats me. What would have happened if she had appeared—with her child? It hurts. It still hurts. Don’t ask me why. She belonged to me, that’s all I can tell you.

Must have been quite an affair. The word affair rubbed me the wrong way.

No, I said, it was a pure abortion. An assassination. I might as well have been in love with Queen Guinevere. I let myself down, do you understand? It was bad. I’ll never get over it, I guess. Shit! Why talk about it?

He kept quiet, the good Reb. Looked straight ahead and gave her more gas.

After a time he said very simply—You should write about it some time. To which I replied—Never! I could never find words for it.

At the corner, where the stationery store was, I got out.

Let’s do it again soon, eh? said Reb, extending his big hairy mitt. Next time I’ll introduce you to my colored friends.

I walked up the street, past the iron hitching posts, the wide lawns, the big verandahs. Still thinking of Una Gifford. If only it were possible to see her once again … one look, no more. Then close the book—forever.

I walked on, past the house, past more iron Negroes with pink watermelon mouths and striped blouses, past more stately mansions, more ivy-covered porches and verandahs. Florida, no less. Why not Cornwall, or Avalon, or the Castle of Carbonek? I began to chant to myself … There was never knight in all this world so noble, so unselfish … And then a dreadful thought took hold of me. Marco! Dangling from the ceiling of my brain was Marco who had hanged himself. A thousand times he had told her, Mona, of his love; a thousand times he had played the fool; a thousand times he had warned her he would kill himself if he could not find favor in her eyes. And she had laughed at him, ridiculed him, scorned him, humiliated him. No matter what she said or did he continued to abase himself, continued to lavish gifts upon her; the very sight of her, the sound of her mocking laugh, made him cringe and fawn. Yet nothing could kill his love, his adoration. When she dismissed him he would return to his garret to write jokes. (He made his living, poor devil, selling jokes to magazines.) And every penny he earned he turned over to her, and she took it without so much as a thank you. (Go now, dog!) One morning he was found hanging from a rafter in his miserable garret. No message. Just a body swinging in the gloom and the dust. His last joke.

And when she broke the news to me I said—Marco? What’s Marco to me?

She wept bitter, bitter tears. All I could say by way of comforting her was: He would have done it anyway sooner or later. He was the type.

And she had replied: You’re cruel, you have no heart.

It was true, I was heartless. But there were others whom she was treating equally abominably. In my cruel, heartless way I had reminded her of them, saying—Who next? She ran out of the room with hands over her ears. Horrible. Too horrible.

Inhaling the fragrance of the syringeas, the bougainvilleas, the heavy red roses, I thought to myself—Maybe that poor devil Marco loved her as I once loved Una Gifford. Maybe he believed that by a miracle her scorn and disdain would one day be converted into love, that she would see him for what he was, a great bleeding heart bursting with tenderness and forgiveness. Perhaps each night, when he returned to his room, he had gone down on his knees and prayed. (But no answer.) Did I not groan too each night on climbing into bed? Did I not also pray? And how! It was disgraceful, such praying, such begging, such whimpering! If only a Voice had said: alt is hopeless, you are not the man for her. I might have given up, I might have made way for some one else. Or at least cursed the God who had dealt me such a fate.

Poor Marco! Begging not to be loved but to be permitted to Jove. And condemned to make jokes! Only now do I realize what you suffered, what you endured, dear Marco. Now you can enjoy her—from above. You can watch over her day and night. If in life she never saw you as you were, you at least may see her now for what she is. You had too much heart for that frail body. Guinevere herself was unworthy of the great love she inspired. But then a queen steps so lightly, even when crushing a louse…

The table was set, dinner waiting for me when I walked in. She was in an unusually good mood, Mona.

How was it? Did you enjoy yourself? she cried, throwing her arms around me.

I noticed the flowers standing in the vase and the bottle of wine beside my plate. Napoleon’s favorite wine, which he drank even at St. Helena.