Plexus (78 page)

“Imagine, she was walking around in overalls. She had no stockings and her shoes were worn through. People were making fun of her.”

“Describe her again, will you?”

“I really can't,” said Mona, whereupon she launched into an extravagant description of her friend. The way she said “my friend” gave me a queer feeling. I had never heard her refer to any of her other acquaintances in quite this way. There was a fervor to her words which suggested veneration, adoration and other undefinable things. She had made of this meeting with her new-found friend an event of the first magnitude.

“How old is she?” I ventured to ask.

“How old? I don't know. Maybe twenty-two or -three. She has no age. You don't think of such things when you look at her. She's the most extraordinary being I've ever met—outside of yourself, Val.”

“An artist, I suppose?”

“She's everything. She can do anything.”

“Does she paint?”

“Of course! She paints, sculpts, makes puppets, writes poetry, dances—and with it all she's a clown. But a sad clown, like you.”

“You don't think she's nuts?”

“I should say not! She does queer things, but only because she's unusual. She's about as free a person as I've ever seen, and tragic to boot. She's really unfathomable.”

“Like Claude, I suppose.”

She smiled. “In a way,” she said. “Funny you mentioned him. You ought to see the two of them together. They look as if they hailed from another planet.”

“So they know each other?”

“I introduced them to one another. They get along splendidly, too. They talk their own private language. And do you know, they even resemble one another physically.”

“I suppose she's a bit on the mannish side, this Anapopoulos or whatever it is?”

“Not really,” said Mona, her eyes glistening. “She prefers to dress in men's clothes because she feels more comfortable that way. She's more than a mere female, you see. If she were a man, I'd speak the same way. There's some added quality in her which is beyond sexual distinction. Sometimes she reminds me of an angel, except that there's nothing ethereal or remote about her. No, she's very earthy, almost coarse at times.… The only way to explain it to you, Val, is to say that she's a superior being. You know how you felt about Claude? Well… Anastasia is a tragic buffoon. She doesn't belong in this world at all. I don't know where she belongs, but certainly not here. The very tone of her voice will tell you that. It's an extraordinary voice, more like a bird's than a human being's. But when she gets angry it becomes frightening.”

“Why, does she fly into rages frequently?”

“Only when people insult her or make fun of her.”

“Why do they do that?”

“I told you—
because she's different
. Even her walk is unique. She can't help it, it's her nature. But it makes me furious to see the way she's treated. There never was a more generous, reckless soul. Of course she has no sense of reality. That's what I love about her.”

“What do you mean by that exactly?”

“Just what I said. If someone came along who needed a shirt she'd take hers off—right in the street—and give it to the person. She'd never think about the fact that she was
indecently exposed. She'd take her pants off too, if necessary.”

“You don't call that mad?”

“No, Val, I don't. For her it's the natural, sane thing to do. She never stops to think of consequences; she doesn't care what people think of her. She's genuine through and through. And she's as sensitive and delicate as a flower.”

“She must have had a strange bringing up. Did she tell you anything about her parents, anything about her childhood?”

“A little.”

I could see that she knew more than she cared to reveal.

“She was an orphan, I believe. She said the people who adopted her were very kind to her. She had everything she wanted.”

“Well, let's get to bed, what do you say?”

She went to the bathroom to go through the usual interminable routine. I got in bed and waited patiently. The door to the bathroom was open.

“By the way,” I said, thinking to divert her mind, “how is Claude these days? Anything new?”

“He's leaving town in a day or two.”

“Where to?”

“He wouldn't say. I have a notion he's heading for Africa.”

“Africa?
Why would he be going
there?”

“Search me! It wouldn't surprise me, though, if he said he were going to the moon. You know Claude.…”

“You've said that several times now, and always the same way. No, I don't know Claude, not like
you
mean. I know only what he chooses to tell, nothing more. He's an absolute conundrum to me.”

I heard her chuckling to herself.

“What's so funny about that?” I asked.

“I thought you understood one another perfectly.”

“No one will ever get to understand Claude,” said I.
“He's an enigma, and he'll remain an enigma.”

“That's just the way I feel about my friend.”

“Your
friend,”
said I a little testily. “You hardly know her and you speak of her as if she were a lifelong friend.”

“Don't be silly. She
is
my friend—the only friend I've ever had.”

“You sound as if you were infatuated.…”

“I am! She appeared at the right moment.”

“Now what does that mean?”

“That I was desperate, lonely, miserable. That I needed someone I could call a
friend.”

“What's come over you anyway? Since when have you needed a friend?
I'm your friend
. Isn't that enough for you?” I said it mockingly, but I was half in earnest.

To my astonishment she replied: “No, Val, you're not my friend any more. You're my husband, and I love you.… I couldn't live without you, but.…”

“But what?”

“I had to have a friend, a woman friend. Someone I can confide in, someone who understands me.”

“Well I'll be damned! So that's it? And you mean you can't confide in
me?”

“Not like I can in a woman. There are some things you just can't tell a man, even if you love him. Oh, they're not
big
things, don't worry. Sometimes little things are more important than big things, you know that. Besides, look at you… you've got loads of friends. And when you're with your friends you're a different person entirely. I used to envy you sometimes. Maybe I was jealous of your friends. Once I thought that I could be everything to you. But I see I was wrong. Anyway, now I have a friend—
and I'm going to keep her.”

Half teasingly, half seriously, I said: “Now you want to make
me
jealous, is that it?”

She came out of the bathroom, knelt beside the bed and put her head in my arms. “Val,” she murmured, “you know that isn't true. But this friendship is something
very dear and very precious to me. I don't want to share her with anyone, not even with you. Not for a while, at least.”

“All right,” I said. “I get it.” My voice sounded a trifle husky, I noticed.

Gratefully she burbled: “I knew you'd understand.”

“But what is there to understand?” I asked. I said it softly and gently.

“That's it,” she answered, “nothing, nothing. It's only natural.” She bent forward and kissed me affectionately on the lips.

As she got to her feet to put out the lights I said impulsively: “You poor girl! Wanting a friend all this time and I never knew it, never suspected it. I guess I must be a dumb, insensitive bugger.”

She switched off the lights and crawled into bed. There were twin beds but we used only one.

“Hold me tight,” she whispered. “Val, I love you more than ever. Do you hear me?”

I said nothing, just held her tight.

“Claude said to me the other day—are you listening?—that you were one of the few.”

“One of the elect, is that it?” I said jokingly.

“The only man in the world for me.”

“But not a friend.…”

She put her hand over my mouth.

Every night it was the same theme song—“My friend ‘Stasia.” Varied, of course, to add a little spice, with tall tales of the annoying attentions lavished upon her by an incongruous quartette. One of them—she didn't even know his name—owned a string of book stores; another was the wrestler, Jim Driscoll; the third was a millionaire, a notorious pervert, whose name—it sounded incredible—was
Tinkelfels; the fourth was a mad individual who was also somewhat of a saint. Ricardo, this last named, appealed to me warmly, assuming that her description of him tallied with reality. A quiet, sober individual who spoke with a strong Spanish accent, had a wife and three children whom he loved dearly, was extremely poor but made lavish gifts, was kind and gentle—“tender as a lamb”—wrote metaphysical treatises which were unpublishable, gave lectures to audiences of ten or twelve,
et patati et patata
. What I liked about him was this—each time he accompanied her to the subway, each time he said good night, he would clutch her hands and murmur solemnly: “If I can't have you, nobody will.
I will kill you.”

She came back to Ricardo again and again, saying how much he thought of Anastasia, how “beautifully” he treated her, and so forth. And each time she brought up his name she would repeat his threat, laughing over it as if it were a great joke. Her attitude began to annoy me.

“How do you know he won't keep his word some day?” I said one night.

She laughed even harder at this.

“You think it's so impossible, do you?”

“You don't know him,” said she. “He's one of the gentlest creatures on earth.”

“That's precisely why I think he's capable of doing it. He's serious. You'd better watch yourself with him.”

“Oh, nonsense! He wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“Maybe not. But he sounds passionate enough to kill the woman he loves.”

“How can he be in love with
me?
It's silly. I don't show him any affection. I hardly listen to him, in fact. He talks to Anastasia more than to me.”

“You don't have to
do
anything, you only need to
be
. He's got a fixation. He isn't mad. Unless it's madness to fall in love with an image. You're the physical image of his ideal, that's obvious. He doesn't need to plumb you, or even to get a response from you. He wants to gaze at you
eternally—because you've incarnated the woman of his dreams.”

“That's just the way
he talks,”
said Mona, somewhat taken aback by my words. “You two would get on wonderfully together. You speak the same language. I know he's a sensitive creature, and a most intelligent one, too. I like him enormously, but he gets in my hair. He has no sense of humor, none whatever. When he smiles he looks even sadder than usual. He's a lonely soul.”

“It's a pity I don't know him,” I said. “I like him more than anyone you've talked about. He sounds like a real human being. Besides, I like Spaniards. They're
men. …”

“He's not a Spaniard—he's Cuban.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it isn't, Val. Ricardo told me so himself. He despises the Cubans.”

“Well, no matter. I'd like him even if he were a Turk.”

“Maybe I could introduce him to you,” said Mona suddenly. “Why not?”

I reflected a moment before answering.

“I don't think you'd better,” said I. “You couldn't fool a man like that. He's not a Cromwell. Besides, even Cromwell isn't the fool you take him to be.”

“I never said he was a fool!”

“But you tried to make me believe so, you can't deny that.”

“Well, you know why.” She gave me one of her faunlike smiles.

“Listen, sister, I know so much more about you and your wiles than you'd ever give me credit for that it hurts to even mention the subject.”

“You have a great imagination, Val. That's the reason why I sometimes tell you so little. I know how you build things up.”

“But you must admit I build on a firm foundation!”

Again the faunlike smile.

Then she busied herself with something, in order to hide her face.

A pleasant sort of pause intervened. Then, out of a clear sky I suddenly remarked—“I suppose women are obliged to lie… it's in their nature. Men lie too, of course, but so differently. Women seem to have an unholy fear of the truth. You know, if you could stop lying, if you could stop playing this foolish, unnecessary game with me, I think.…”

I noticed that she had halted whatever it was she was pretending to be doing. Maybe she'll really listen, I thought to myself. I could see only the side of her face. The expression was one of intense alertness. Of wariness too. Like an animal.

“I think I would do anything you asked of me. I think I would even surrender you to another man, if that was what you wished.”

These unexpected words of mine gave her intense relief, or so it seemed. What it was she had imagined I would say I don't know. A weight had fallen off her shoulders. She came over to me—I was sitting on the edge of the bed—and sat beside me. She put a hand on mine. The look which stole into her eyes was one of utter sincerity and devotion.

“Val,” she began, “you know I would never make such a demand of you. How could you say such a thing? Maybe I do tell you fibs now and then, but not
lies
. I couldn't keep anything vital from you—it would give me too much pain. These little things… these fibs … I make them up because I don't want to hurt you. There are situations sometimes which are so sordid that, even to relate them to you, I feel would soil you. It doesn't matter what happens to
me
. I'm made of coarser fiber. I know what the world is like. You don't. You're a dreamer. And an idealist. You don't know, nor will you ever suspect, much less believe, how wicked people are. You see only the good side of everyone. You're pure, that's what. And that's what Claude
meant when he said you were one of the few. Ricardo is another pure soul. People like you and Ricardo should never be involved in ugly things. I get involved now and then—because I'm not afraid of contamination. I'm of the world. With you I behave like another being. I want to be what you'd like me to be. But I'll never be like you, never.”