Sexus (58 page)

“Rebecca,” I said, proceeding slowly and deliberately, “if I really knew what I was capable of I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you. I feel sometimes as though I'm going to burst. I really don't give a damn about the misery of the world. I take it for granted. What I want is to open up. I want to know what's inside me. I want everybody to open up. I'm like an imbecile with a can opener in his hand, wondering where to begin—to open up the earth. I know that underneath the mess everything is marvelous. I'm sure of it. I know it because I feel so marvelous myself most of the time. And when I feel that way everybody seems marvelous . . . everybody and
everything . . . even pebbles and pieces of cardboard . . . a goat's beard, if you like. That's what I want to write about—but I don't know how . . . I don't know where to begin. Maybe it's too personal. Maybe it would sound like sheer rubbish. . . . You see, to me it seems as though the artists, the scientists, the philosophers were grinding lenses. It's all a grand preparation for something that never comes off. Someday the lens is going to be perfect and then we're all going to see clearly, see what a staggering, wonderful, beautiful world it is. But in the meantime we go without glasses, so to speak. We blunder about like myopic, blinking idiots. We don't see what is under our nose because we're so intent on seeing the stars, or what lies beyond the stars. We're trying to see with the mind, but the mind sees only what it's told to see. The mind can't open its eyes and look just for the pleasure of looking. Haven't you ever noticed that when you stop looking, when you don't try to see,
you suddenly see?
What is it you see? Who is it that sees? Why is it all so different—so marvelously different—in such moments? And which is more real, that kind of vision or the other? You see what I mean . . . When you have an inspiration your mind takes a vacation; you turn it over to someone else, some invisible, unknowable power which takes possession of you, as we so aptly say. What the hell does that mean—if it makes sense at all? What happens when the machinery of the mind slows down, or comes to a standstill? Whatever or however you choose to look upon it, this other
modus operandi
is of another order. The machine runs perfectly, but its object and purpose seem purely gratuitous. It makes another kind of sense . . . grand sense if you accept it unquestioningly, and nonsense—or not nonsense, but madness—if you try to examine into it with the other machinery . . . Jesus, I guess I'm getting off the track.”

Little by little she steered me back to the story she wanted to hear. She was avidly curious about the details. She laughed a great deal—that low, earthy laugh which was provocative and approving at the same time.

“You pick the strangest women,” she said. “You seem to
choose with your eyes shut. Don't you ever think beforehand what it's going to mean to live with them?”

She went on like this for a space and then suddenly I was aware that she had veered the conversation to Mona.
Mona
—that puzzled her. What did we have in common, she wanted to know. How could I stand her lies, her pretenses—or didn't I care about such things? Surely there had to be firm ground somewhere . . . one couldn't build on quicksands. She had thought about us a great deal, even before she met Mona. She had heard about her, from different sources, had been curious to know her, to understand what the great attraction was. . . . Mona was beautiful, yes—ravishingly beautiful—and perhaps intelligent too. But God, so theatrical! There was no getting to grips with her; she eluded one like a phantom.

“What do you really know about her?” she asked challengingly. “Have you met her parents? Do you know anything about her life before she met you?”

I confessed that I knew almost nothing. Perhaps it was better that I didn't know, I averred. There was something attractive about the mystery which surrounded her.

“Oh, nonsense!” said Rebecca scathingly. “I don't think there's any great mystery there. Her father's probably a rabbi.”

“What! What makes you say that? How do you know she's Jewish? I don't even know it myself.”

“You don't want to know it, you mean. Of course I don't know either, except that she denies it so vehemently—that always makes one suspicious. Besides, does she look like the average American type? Come, come, don't tell me you haven't suspected as much—you're not as dumb as all that.”

What surprised me more than anything, as regards these remarks, was the fact that Rebecca had succeeded in discussing the subject with Mona. Not a hint of it had reached my ears. I would have given anything to have been behind a screen during that encounter.

“If you really want to know something,” I said, “I'd rather that she were a Jewess than anything else. I never pump her about that, of course. Evidently it's a painful subject. She'll come out with it one day, you'll see . . .”

“You're so damned romantic,” said Rebecca. “Really, you're incurable. Why should a Jewish girl be any different from a Gentile? I live in both worlds . . . I don't find anything strange or marvelous about either.”

“Naturally,”
I said. “You're always the same person. You don't change from one milieu to another. You're honest and open. You could get along anywhere with any group or class or race. But most people aren't that way. Most people are conscious of race, color, religion, nationality, and so on. To me all peoples are mysterious when I look at them closely. I can detect their differences much easier than their kinship. In fact, I like the distinctions which separate them just as much as I like what unites them. I think it's foolish to pretend that we're all pretty much the same. Only the great, the truly distinctive individuals, resemble one another. Brotherhood doesn't start at the bottom, but at the top. The nearer we get to God the more we resemble one another. At the bottom it's like a rubbish pile . . . that's to say, from a distance it all seems like so much rubbish, but when you get nearer you perceive that this so-called ‘rubbish' is composed of a million billion different particles. And yet, no matter how different one bit of ‘rubbish' is from another, the real difference only asserts itself when you look at something which is not ‘rubbish.' Even if the elements which compose the universe can be broken down into one vital substance . . . well, I don't know what I was going to say exactly . . . maybe this. . . that as long as there is life there will be differentiation, values, hierarchies. Life is always making pyramidal structures, in every realm. If you're at the bottom you stress the sameness of things; if you're at the top, or near it, you become aware of the difference between things. And if something is obscure—especially a person—you're attracted beyond all power of will. You may find that it was an empty chase, that there was nothing there, nothing more than a question mark, but just the same . . .”

There was something more I felt like adding. “And there's the opposite to all this,” I continued. “As with my ex-wife, for instance. Of course I should have suspected that she had another side, hating her as I did for being so damned prudish
and proper. It's all very well to say that an overmodest person is extremely immodest, as the analysts do, but to catch one changing over from the one to the other, that's something you don't often have a chance to witness. Or if you do, it's usually with someone else that the transformation occurs. But yesterday I saw it happen right before my eyes, and not with somebody else, but with me! No matter how much you think you know about a person's secret thoughts, about their unconscious impulses and all that, nevertheless, when the conversion takes place before your eyes you begin to wonder if you ever did know the person with whom you were living all your life. It's all right to say to yourself, apropos of a dear friend—‘He has all the instincts of a murderer'—but when you see him coming at you with a knife, that's something else. Somehow you're never quite prepared for that, no matter how clever you are. At best you might credit him with doing it to someone else—but never to you . . . oh dear no! The way I feel now is that I should be prepared for anything from those whom you're apt to suspect least of all. I don't mean that one should be anxious, no, not that . . . one shouldn't be surprised, that's all. The only surprise should be that you can still be surprised. That's it. That's Jesuitical, what! Oh yes, I can spin it out when I get going. . . .
Rabbi,
you said a moment ago. Did you ever think that I might make a good rabbi? I mean it. Why not? Why couldn't I be a rabbi, if I wanted to? Or a pope, or a mandarin, or a Dalai Lama? If you can be a worm you can be a god too.”

The conversation went on like this for several hours, broken only by Arthur Raymond's return. I stayed a while longer, to allay any suspicions he might have, and then retired. Towards dawn Mona returned, wide awake, lovelier than ever, her skin glowing like calcium. She hardly listened to my explanations about the night before; she was exalted, infatuated with herself. So many things had happened since then—she didn't know where to begin. First of all, they had promised her the role of understudy for the leading part in their next production. That is, the director had—no one else knew anything about it as yet. He was in love with her, the director. Had been slipping love notes in her pay envelopes
for the last weeks. And the leading actor, he too was in love with her—madly in love. It was he who had been coaching her all along. He had been teaching her how to breathe, how to relax, how to stand, how to walk, how to use her voice. It was marvelous. She was a new person, with unknown powers. She had faith in herself, a boundless faith. Soon she would have the world at her feet. She'd take New York by storm, tour the country, go abroad maybe . . . Who could predict what lay ahead? Just the same, she was a little frightened of it all, too. She wanted me to help her; I was to listen to her read the script of her new part. There were so many things she didn't know—and she didn't want to reveal her ignorance before her infatuated lovers. Maybe she'd look up that old fossil at the Ritz-Carlton, make him buy her a new outfit. She needed hats, shoes, dresses, blouses, gloves, stockings . . . so many, many things. It was important now to look the part. She was going to wear her hair differently too. I had to go with her into the hall and observe the new carriage, the new gait she had acquired. Hadn't I noticed the change in her voice? Well, I would very soon. She would be completely remade—and I would love her even more. She would be a hundred different women to me now. Suddenly she thought of an old beau whom she had forgotten about, a clerk at the Imperial Hotel. He would buy her everything she needed—without a word. Yes, she must telephone him in the morning. I could meet her at dinner, in her new togs. I wasn't going to be jealous, was I? He was a young man, the clerk, but a perfect fool, a ninny, a sap. The only reason he saved his money was that she might spend it. He had no use for it otherwise—he was too dumb to know what to do with it. If he could only hold her hand furtively he was grateful. Maybe she would give him a kiss sometime—when she needed some unusual favor.

On and on she ran . . . the kind of gloves she liked, the way to place the voice, how the Indians walked, the value of Yoga exercises, the way to train the memory, the perfume that suited her mood, the superstitiousness of theatrical people, their generosity, their intrigues, their amours, their pride, their conceit. How it felt to rehearse in an empty house, the
jokes and pranks that occurred in the wings, the attitude of the stagehands, the peculiar aroma of the dressing rooms. And the jealousy! Everyone jealous of everyone else. Fever, commotion, distraction, grandeur. A world within a world. One became intoxicated, drugged, hallucinated.

And the discussions! A mere trifle could bring about a raging controversy, ending sometimes in a brawl, a hair-pulling match. Some of them seemed to have the very devil in them, especially the women. There was only one decent one, and she was quite young and inexperienced. The others were veritable maenads, furies, harpies. They swore like troopers. By comparison the girls at the dance hall were angelic.

A long pause.

Then, apropos of nothing, she asked when the divorce trial was taking place.

“This week,” I said, surprised at the sudden turn of her mind.

“We'll get married right away,” she said.

“Of course,” I responded.

She didn't like the way I said “of course.” “You don't have to marry me, if you don't want,” she said.

“But I do want to,” I said. “And then we'll get out of this place . . . find a place of our own.”

“Do you mean that?” she exclaimed. “I'm so glad. I've been waiting to hear you say that. I want to start a new life with you. Let's go away from all these people! And I want you to quit that awful job. I'll find a place where you can write. You won't need to earn any money. I'll soon be making lots of money. You can have anything you want. I'll get you all the books you want to read. . . . Maybe you'll write a play—and I'll act in it! That would be wonderful, wouldn't it?”

I wondered what Rebecca would have said of this speech, had she been listening. Would she have heard only the actress, or would she have detected the germ of a new being expressing itself? Perhaps that mysterious quality of Mona's lay not in obscuration but in germination. True enough, the contours of her personality were not sharply defined, but that
was no reason to accuse her of falsity. She was mimetic, chameleonesque, and not outwardly, but inwardly. Outwardly everything about her was pronounced and definite; she stamped her impress upon you immediately. Inwardly she was like a column of smoke; the slightest pressure of her will altered the configuration of her personality instantly. She was sensitive to pressures, not the pressure of others' wills but of their desires. The histrionic role with her was not something to be put on and off—it was her way of meeting reality. What she thought, she believed; what she believed was real; what was real, she acted upon. Nothing was unreal to her, except that which she was not thinking about. But the moment her attention was brought to bear, no matter how monstrous, fantastic or incredible, the thing became real. In her the frontiers were never closed. People who credited her with having a strong will were utterly mistaken. She had a will, yes, but it was not the will which swept her headlong into new and startling situations—it was her ever-present readiness, her alertness, to act out her ideas. She could change with devastating swiftness from role to role; she changed before your eyes, with that incredible and elusive prestidigitation of the vaudeville star who impersonates the most diverse types. What she had been doing all her life unconsciously the theater was now teaching her to do deliberately. They were only making an actress of her in the sense that they were revealing to her the boundaries of art; they were indicating the limitations which surround creation. They could make a failure of her only by giving her free rein.