The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (43 page)

I am walking down the middle of civilization, and this is how it is. On the one side culture running like an open sewer; on the other the abattoirs where everything hangs on the hooks, split open, gory, swarming with flies and maggots. The boulevard of life in the twentieth Century. One Arc de Triomphe after another. Robots advancing with the Bible in one hand and a rifle in the other. Lemmings rushing to the sea. Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war … Hurrah for the Karamazovs! What gay wisdom! Encore un petit effort, si vous voulez etre republicains!

Down the middle of the road. Stepping gingerly amidst the piles of horse manure. What dirt and humbug we have to stumble through! Ah, Harry, Harry! Harry Haller, Harry Heller, Harry Smith, Harry Miller, Harry Harried. Coming, Asmodeus, coming! On two sticks, like a crippled Satan. But laden with medals. Such medals! The Iron Cross, the Victoria Cross, the Croix de guerre … in gold, in silver, in bronze, in iron, in zinc, in wood, in tin … Take your pick!

And poor Jesus had to carry his own cross!

The air grows more pungent. Chatham Square. Good old Chinatown. Below the pavement a honeycomb of booths. Opium dens. Lotus land. Nirvana. Rest in peace, the workers of the world are working. We are all working—to usher in eternity.

Now the Brooklyn Bridge swinging like a lyre between the skyscrapers and Brooklyn Heights. Once again the weary pedestrian wends his way homeward, pockets empty, stomach empty, heart empty. Gorgonzola hobbling along on two burned stumps. The river below, the sea gulls above. And above the gulls the stars invisible. What a glorious day! A walk such as Pomander himself might have enjoyed. Or Anaxagoras. Or that arbiter of perverted taste: Petronius.

The winter of life, as some one should have said, begins at birth. The hardest years are from one to ninety. After that, smooth sailing.

Howeward the swallows fly. Each one carrying in his bill a crumb, a dead twig, a spark of hope. E pluribus unum.

The orchestra pit is rising, all sixty-four players donned in spotless white. Above, the stars are beginning to show through the midnight blue of the domed ceiling. The greatest show on earth is about to be ushered in, complete with trained seals, ventriloquists and aerial acrobats. The master of ceremonies is Uncle Sam himself, that long, lean striped-like-a-zebra humorist who straddles the world with his Baron Munchausen legs and, come wind, hail, snow, frost or dry rot, is ever ready to cry Cock-a doodledoo!

19.

Sailing out one bright and lovely morning to take my constitutional, I find MacGregor waiting for me at the doorstep.

Hi there! he says, switching on his electric grin. So it’s you, in the flesh? Trapped you at last, eh? He puts out his hand. Hen, why do I have to lay in wait for you like this? Can’t you spare five minutes occasionally for an old friend? What are you running away from? How are you anyway? How’s the book coming along? Mind if I walk a ways with you ?

I suppose the landlady told you I was out?

How did you guess it?

I started walking; he fell in step with me, as if we were on parade.

Hen, you’ll never change, I guess. (Sounded frighteningly like my mother.) Once upon a time I could call you any hour of the day or night and you’d come. Now you’re a writer … an important man … no time for old friends.

Come on, I replied, cut it. You know that’s not it.

What is it then?

This … I’m done wasting time. These problems of yours—I can’t solve them. No one can, except yourself. You’re not the first man who’s been jilted.

What about yourself? Have you forgotten how you used to keep me up all night bending my ear about Una Gifford ?

We were twenty-one then.

One’s never too old to fall in love. At this age it’s even worse. I can’t afford to lose her.

What do you mean—can’t afford?

Too hard on the ego. One doesn’t fall in love as often now or as easily. I don’t want to fall out of love, it would be disastrous. I don’t say that she has to marry me, but I’ve got to know that she’s there … reachable. I can love her from a distance, if necessary.

I smiled. Funny, you saying a thing like that. I was touching on that very theme the other day, in the novel. Do you know what I concluded ?

Better to become a celibate, I suppose.

No, I came to the same conclusion that every jackass does … that nothing matters except to keep on loving. Even if she were to marry some one else, you could keep on loving her. What do you make of that?

Easier said than done, Hen.

Precisely. It’s your opportunity. Most men give up. Supposing she decided to live in Hong Kong? What has distance to do with it?

You’re talking Christian Science, man. I’m not in love with a Virgin Mary. Why should I stand still and watch her drift away? You don’t make sense.

That’s what I’m trying to convince you of. That’s why it’s useless to bring me your problem, don’t you see? We don’t see eye to eye any more. We’re old friends who haven’t a thing in common.

Do you really think that, Hen? His tone was wistful rather than reproachful.

Listen, I said, once we were as close as peas in a pod, you, George Marshall and me. We were like brothers. That was a long, long time ago. Things happened. Somewhere the link snapped. George settled down, like a reformed crook. His wife won out…

And me?

You buried yourself in your law work, which you despise. One day you’ll be a judge, mark my words. But it won’t change your way of life. You’ve given up the ghost. Nothing interests you any more—unless it’s a game of poker. And you think my way of life is cock-eyed. It is, I’ll admit that. But not in the way you think.

His reply surprised me somewhat. You’re not so far off the track, Hen. We have made a mess of it, George and myself. The others too, for that matter. (He was referring to the members of the Xerxes Society.) None of us has amounted to a damn. But what’s all that got to do with friendship? Must we become important figures in the world to remain friends? Sounds like snobbery to me. We never pretended, George or I, that we were going to burn up the world. We’re what we are. Isn’t that good enough for you ?

Look, I replied, it wouldn’t matter to me if you were nothing but a bum; you could still be my friend and I yours. You could make fun of everything I believed in, if you believed in something yourself. But you don’t. You believe in nothing. To my way of thinking one’s got to believe in what he’s doing, else all’s a farce. I’d be all for you if you wanted to be a bum and became a bum with all your heart and soul. But what are you? You’re one of those meaningless souls who filled us with contempt when we were younger … when we sat up the whole night long discussing such thinkers as Nietzsche, Shaw, Ibsen. Just names to you now. You weren’t going to be like your old man, no sir! They weren’t going to lasso you, tame you. But they did. Or you did. You put yourself in the strait-jacket. You took the easiest way. You surrendered before you had even begun to fight.

And you? he exclaimed, holding a hand aloft as if to say Hear, hear! Yeah, you, what have you accomplished that’s so remarkable? Going on forty and nothing published yet. What’s so great about that?

Nothing, I replied. It’s deplorable, that’s what.

And that entitles you to lecture me. Ho ho!

I had to hedge a bit. I wasn’t lecturing you, I was explaining that we had nothing in common any more.

!From the looks of it we’re both failures. That’s what we have in common, if you’ll face it squarely.

I never said I was a failure. Except to myself, perhaps. How can one be a failure if he’s still struggling, still fighting? Maybe I won’t make the grade. Maybe I’ll end up being a trombone player. But whatever I do, whatever I take up, it’ll be because I believe in it. I won’t float with the tide. I’d rather go down fighting … a failure, as you say. I loathe doing like every one else, falling in line, saying yes when you mean no.

He started to say something but I waved him down.

I don’t mean senseless struggle, senseless resistance. One should make an effort to reach clear, still waters. One has to struggle to stop struggling. One has to find himself, that’s what I mean.

Hen, he said, you talk well and you mean well, but you’re all mixed up. You read too much, that’s your trouble.

And you never stop to think, I rejoined. Nor will you accept your share of suffering. You think there’s an answer to everything. It never occurs to you that maybe there isn’t, that maybe the only answer is you yourself, how you regard your problems. You don’t want to wrestle with problems, you want them eliminated for you. The easy way out, that’s you. Take this girl of yours … this life and death problem … doesn’t it mean something to you that she sees nothing in you? You ignore that, don’t you? I want her! I’ve got to have her! That’s all you’ve got to answer. Sure you’d change your ways, you’d make something of yourself … if some one were kind enough to stand over you with a sledgehammer. You like to say—’Hen, I’m an ornery sort of bastard,’ but you won’t raise a finger to make yourself a wee bit different. You want to be taken as you are, and if one doesn’t like you the way you are, fuck him! Isn’t that it?

He cocked his head to one side, like a judge weighing the testimony presented, then said: Maybe. Maybe you’re right.

For a few moments we walked on in silence. Like a bird with a burr in his craw, he was digesting the evidence. Then, his lips spreading into an impish grin, he said: Sometimes you remind me of that bastard, Challacombe. God, how that guy could rile me I Always talking down from his pedestal. And you fell for all that crap of his. You believed in him … in that Theosophical shit…

I certainly did! I answered with heat. If he had never mentioned anything more than the name Swanii Vivekananda I would have felt indebted to him the rest of my life. Crap, you say. To me it was the breath of life, I know he wasn’t your idea of a friend. A little too lofty, too detached, for your taste. He was a teacher, and you couldn’t see him as a teacher. Where did he get his credentials and all that? He had no schooling, no training, no nothing. But he knew what he was talking about. At least, I thought so. He made you wallow in your own vomit, and you didn’t like that. You wanted to lean on his shoulder and puke all over him—then he would have been a friend. And so you searched for flaws in his character, you found his weaknesses, you reduced him to your own level. You do that with every one who’s difficult to understand. When you can jeer at the other fellow as you do at yourself you’re happy … then everything comes out even … Look, try to understand this. Everything’s wrong with the world. Everywhere there’s ignorance, superstition, bigotry, injustice, intolerance. It’s been so since the world began most likely. It will be so to-morrow and the day after. So what? Is that a reason to feel defeated, to go sour on the world? Do you know what Swami Vivekananda said once? He said: There is only one sill. That is weakness … Do not add one lunacy to another. Do not add your weakness to the evil that is going to come … Be strong!

I paused, waiting for him to make mince meat of this. Instead he said: Go on, Hen, give us some more! It sounds good.

It is good, I replied. It will always be good. And people will go on doing the very opposite. The very ones who applauded his words betrayed him the instant he stopped speaking. That goes for Vivekananda, Socrates, Jesus, Nietzsche, Karl Marx, Krishnamurti … name them yourself! But what am I telling you all this for anyway? You won’t change. You refuse to grow. You want to get by with the least effort, the least trouble, the least pain. Every one does. It’s wonderful to hear tell about the masters, but as for becoming a master, shit! Listen, I was reading a book the other day … to be honest, I’ve been reading it for a year or more. Don’t ask me the title, because I’m not giving it to you. But here’s what I read, and no master could have put it better. The sole meaning, purpose, intention, and secret of Christ, my dears, is not to understand Life, or mould it, or change it, or even to love it, but to drink of its undying essence.

Say it again, will you, Hen?

I did.

To drink of its undying essence, he mumbled. Damned good. And you won’t tell me who wrote it?

No.

Okay, Hen. Go on! What else have you got up your sleeve this morning?

This … How are you making out with your Guelda?

Forget it! This is much better.

You’re not giving her up, I hope?

She’s giving me up. For good, this time.

And you’re reconciled to it?

Don’t you ever listen to me? Of course not! That’s why I was laying in wait for you. But, as you say, each one has to follow his own path. Don’t you think I know that? Maybe we haven’t anything in common any more. Maybe we never did, have you ever thought that? Maybe it was something more than that which held us together. I can’t help liking you, Hen, even when you rake me over the coals. You’re a heartless son of a bitch sometimes. If any one’s ornery it’s you, not me. But you’ve got something, if you can only bring it out. Something for the world, I mean, not for me. You shouldn’t be writing a novel, Hen. Any one can do that. You’ve got more important things to do. I’m serious. I’d rather see you lecture on Vivekananda—or Mahatma Gandhi.

Or Pico della Mirandola.

Never heard of him.

So she won’t have anything more to do with you?

That’s what she said. A woman can always change her mind, of course.

She will, don’t worry.

The last time I saw her she was still talking of taking a vacation—in Par is.

Why don’t you follow her?

Better than that, Hen. I’ve got it all figured out. Soon as I learn what boat she’s taking I’ll go to the steamship office and, even if I have to bribe the clerk, I’ll get a stateroom next to hers. When she comes out that first morning I’ll be there to greet her. ‘Hi there, sweetheart! Beautiful day today, what?’

She’ll love that.

She won’t jump overboard, that’s for sure.

But she might tell the captain that you’re annoying her.

Fuck the captain! I can handle him … Three days at sea and, whether she likes it or not, I’ll break her down.