Varieties of flesh. . . . Before sleep, just as the eyelids close down over the retina and the unbidden images begin their nocturnal parade . . . That woman in the subway whom you followed into the street: a nameless phantom now suddenly reappearing, advancing towards you with lithe, vigorous loins. Reminds you of someone, someone just like that, only with a different face. (But the face was never important!) You have the memory of the ripple and flash of loins just as strong as you have somewhere in your brain the image of the bull you saw when a child: the bull in the act of mounting a cow: Images come and go, and always it is some particular part of the body which stands out, some identification mark. Names—names fade out. The endearing phrases—they too fade out. Even the voice, that which was so potent, so undoing, so altogether personal—that too has a way of vanishing, of becoming lost in all the other voices. But the body lives on, and the eyes, and the fingers of the eyes, remember. They come and go, the unknown, unnamed, mingling as freely with the others as if they were an integral part of one’s life. With the unknown ones comes the remembrance of certain days, certain hours, the voluptuous way they eased into a blank moment of lassitude. You remember just how the tall one in a mauve silk dress stood that afternoon, when the sun beat down with smoldering warmth, and gazed enchanted at the play of water in the fountain. You remember exactly the way your hunger expressed itself at the time—sharp, quick, like a knife blade between the shoulders, then dying away almost as quickly, but in such pleasurable smoke, like a deep nostalgic whiff. And then another one rises up, heavy, stolid, with the porous skin of sandstone; with her everything is centered in the head, the head which does not fit the body, the head which is volcanic, still filled with eruption. They come and go like that, clear, precise, trailing the ambiance of the collision, radiating their instantaneous effects. All kinds, all tempered by texture, weather, mood: metallic ones, marble figurines, translucent shadowy ones, flower-like ones, svelte animals covered with pelts of suede, trapeze artists, silver sheets of water rising in human form and bending like Venetian glass. Leisurely you undress them, examine them under the microscope, bid them sway, bend, flex the knees, roll over, spread their legs. You talk to them, now that your lips are unsealed. What were you doing that day? Do you always wear your hair like that? What were you going to tell me when you stared at me that way? Could I ask you to turn around? That’s it. Now cup your breasts with two hands. Yes, I could have thrown myself on you that day. I could have fucked you right on the sidewalk, and people stepping all over us. I could have fucked you into the ground, buried you there near the lake where you were sitting with legs crossed. You knew I was watching you. Tell me . . . tell me because nobody will ever know . . . what were you thinking then, that very moment? Why did you keep your legs crossed? You knew I was waiting for you to open them. You wanted to open them, didn’t you? Tell me the truth! It was warm and you had nothing on under your dress. You had come down from your perch to get a bit of air, hoping that something would happen. You didn’t much care what happened, did you? You wandered around by the lake, waiting for it to get dark. You wanted someone to look at you, someone whose eyes would undress you, someone who would rivet his gaze on that warm, moist spot between your legs. . . .
You spool it off like that, a million feet to the roll. And all the time, shifting the eyes from one to another with kaleidoscopic fury, what gets under your skin is the inexplicable nature of attraction. The mysterious law of attraction! A secret buried as deep in the isolated parts as in the mysterious whole.
The irresistible creature of the other sex is a monster in process of becoming a flower. Feminine beauty is a ceaseless creation, a ceaseless revolution about a defect (often imaginary) which causes the whole being to gyrate heavenward.
11
“She tried to poison herself!”
Those were the words that greeted me on opening the door of Dr. Onirifick’s establishment. It was Curley who made the announcement, smothering his words under the rattle of the doorknob.
A glance over his shoulder told me that she was asleep. Kronski had taken care of her. He had requested that nothing be said to Dr. Onirifick about it.
“I smelled the chloroform as soon as I came in,” Curley explained. “She was seated in the chair, huddled up, as if she had had a stroke.”
“I thought maybe it was an abortion . . .” he added, looking a little sheepish.
“Why did she do it, did she say?”
Curley hemmed and hawed.
“Come on, don’t be silly. What was it—jealousy?”
He wasn’t sure. All he knew was what she blabbed on coming to. She had repeated over and over that she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Stand what?” I asked.
“Your seeing your wife, I suppose. She said she had picked the receiver up to telephone you. She felt that something was wrong.”
“How did she put it exactly, do you remember?”
“Yes, she talked a lot of nonsense about being betrayed. She said it wasn’t the child you went to see but your wife. She said you were weak, that when she was not with you you were capable of doing anything . . .”
I looked at him in astonishment. “She really said that? You’re not putting it on, are you?”
Curley pretended not to hear. He went on to speak of Kronski, how well he had behaved.
“I didn’t think he could lie so cleverly,” said Curley.
“Lie? How do you mean?”
“The way he talked about you. You should have heard it. God, it was almost as if he were making love to her. He said such wonderful things about you that she began to weep and sob like a child.
“Imagine,” he continued, “telling her that you were the most loyal, faithful fellow in the world! Saying that you had changed completely since you knew her—that no woman could tempt you!”
Here Curley couldn’t restrain a sickly grin.
“Well, it’s true,” I said, almost angrily. “Kronski was telling the truth.”
“That you love her so much you . . .”
“And what makes you think I don’t?”
“Because I know you. You’ll never change.”
I sat down near the bed and looked at her. Curley moved about restlessly. I could feel the anger in him smoldering. I knew what was at the bottom of it.
“She’s quite all right now, I suppose?” I inquired after a time.
“How do I know, she’s not my wife.” The words flashed back like the gleam of a knife.
“What’s the matter with you, Curley? Are you jealous of Kronski? Or are you jealous of me? You can hold her hand and pet her when she wakes up. You know me . . .”
“Damned right I do!” came Curley’s sullen reply. “You should have been here holding her hand yourself. You’re never there when anyone wants you. I suppose you were holding Maude’s hand—now that she doesn’t want you any more. I remember how you treated her. I thought it funny then—I was too young to know better. And I remember Dolores too. . .”
“Easy!” I whispered, motioning with my head towards the prostrate figure.
“She won’t wake up so soon, don’t worry.”
“All right. . . now what about Dolores?” I said, lowering my voice. “Just what did I do to Dolores that hurt you so?”
He could say nothing for a moment. He was simply bursting with scorn and contempt. Finally he blurted it out.
“You ruin them! You destroy something in them, that’s all I can say.”
“You mean that after we broke up you tried to hook Dolores and she wouldn’t have you?”
“Before or after—what difference does it make,” he snarled. “I know how she felt—she used to spill it out to me. Even when she hated you she couldn’t see me. She used me for a pillow. She wept all over me, as if I were made of Christ knows what. . . . You used to sail out after those sessions in the back room beaming all over. Little Curley was left to lick up the crumbs. Little Curley would tidy things up for you. You never thought what happene
d when the door closed on you, did you?”
“No-o-o,” I drawled, smiling at him tauntingly. “What did happen? You tell me.”
It’s always interesting to learn what does really happen when the door closes behind you. I was ready to sit back and listen with ears cocked.
“Of course,” I ventured, to stimulate him further, “you tried to make the most of the situation.”
“If you want to know,” he replied with brutal frankness, “yes, I did. Even if it was a wet deck! I encouraged her to weep, because then I could put my arms around her. And finally I managed it. I didn’t do so bad either, considering the disadvantage I was under. I can tell you a few things about your beautiful Dolores . . .”
I nodded. “Let’s hear everything. It sounds exciting.”
“What you probably don’t know is the way she acts when she gets a weeping spell. You missed something.”
I tried to give him free rein, concealing my emotions behind a mask of disinterested tolerance. Curiously enough, in spite of his desire to wound me, he found it difficult to tell his story coherently, or even to take advantage of the opportunity I had given him. The more he talked the more sorry he became for himself. He couldn’t get away from his own sense of frustration. He wanted to besmirch her, and being able to obtain my approval added spice to the procedure. He thought I too would enjoy this profanation of an old idol.
“So you never really did get your end in?” I threw him a consoling glance. “Too bad, because she certainly was a good piece of hump. . . . If I had only known about it I might have helped you. You should have said something. I thought you were too callow to feel that way about her. Naturally I suspected that you put your arms around her when my back was turned. I didn’t give you credit, though for taking your cock out and trying to shove it in. No, I thought you were too worshipful for that. Jesus, you were only a kid then. How old were you—sixteen, seventeen? I should have remembered about your aunt. But that was different. She raped you, wasn’t that it?”
I lit a cigarette and settled back in the armchair.
“You know, Curley, this makes me wonder a bit. . .”
“You mean about Maude? I never tried anything . . .”
“No, I don’t mean that. I don’t give a damn what you tried or didn’t try. . . .
“I think you ought to be going soon,” I added. “When she comes to I’ll want to talk to her. It’s lucky you came when you did. H’m! I suppose I ought to thank you.”
Curley gathered up his things. “By the way,” he said, “her heart’s not so good. And there’s something else wrong with her too. . . . Kronski will tell you.”
I went to the door with him. We shook hands. I felt impelled to say something.
“Listen, I don’t hold it against you about Dolores, but. . . but don’t be dropping in here when I’m away, see! You can worship her all you want—from a distance. I don’t want any of this damned monkey business, do you understand?”
He gave me a murderous look and strode sullenly off. I had never spoken that way to him before and I regretted it, not because I had wounded him but because I suddenly realized that I had put an idea into his head. Now he would think himself dangerous; he wouldn’t be happy until he had tested his powers.
Dolores! Well, I had learned nothing of any consequence. Still, there was something about it I didn’t like. Dolores was soft. Too yielding to suit me. There was a time when I had been on the point of asking her to marry me. I recalled what it was that had prevented me from making such a blunder. It was that I knew she would say yes, weakly, because she was mentally still a virgin, unable to resist the pressure of a stiff cock. That—her weak yes, to be followed by a lifetime of blubbering regrets. Instead of helping me to forget, she would be a constant mute reminder of the crime I intended to commit. (The crime of leaving my wife.) God knows, part of me was soft as a sponge. I didn’t need anyone to cultivate that side of me! She was really disgusting, Dolores. Her eyes glowed with such adolescent fervor as she watched me pouring balm over the maimed and wounded. Yes, I could see her clearly now. She was like a nurse attending a physician. She wanted to mother all those poor bastards I was killing myself to aid in one way or another. She wanted only to slave all day by my side. Then offer her little cunt—as a reward, as a mark of approbation. What the hell did she know about love? She was just a puppy. I felt sorry for Curley.
Kronski had told the truth! That’s what I kept repeating to myself as I sat beside the bed and waited for her to return to life. She was not dead, thank God. Merely asleep. She looked as though she were floating in luminal.
It was so unusual for me to play the role of the bereaved one that I became fascinated by the thought of how I would act if she were actually to die now before my eyes. Supposing she were never to open her eyes again? Supposing she passed from this deep trance into death? I tried to concentrate on that thought. I wanted desperately to know how I would feel if she were to die. I tried to imagine that I was a fresh widower, that I had not even called the undertaker.
First of all, however, I got up to put my ear to her mouth. Yes, she was still breathing. I pulled the chair close to the foot of the bed and concentrated as best I could on death—her death. No extraordinary emotions manifested themselves. To be truthful, I forgot about my supposed personal loss and became absorbed in a rather blissful contemplation of the desirability of death. I began to think about my own death, and how I would enjoy it. The prone figure lying there, hardly breathing, floating in the wake of a drug like a small boat attached to the stern of a vessel, was myself. I had wanted to die and now I was dying. I was no longer aware of this world but not yet in the other one. I was passing slowly out to sea, drowning without pain of suffocation. My thoughts were neither of the world I was leaving nor of the one I was approaching. In fact, there was nothing comparable to thought going on. Nor was it dreaming. It was more like a diaspora; the knot was unraveling, the self was dribbling away. There wasn’t even a self any more: I was the smoke from a good cigar, and like smoke I was vanishing in thin air, and what was left of the cigar was crumbling to dust and dissolution.
I gave a start. The wrong tack. I relaxed and gazed at her less fixedly. Why should I think about her death?
Then it came to me: only if she were dead could I love her the way I imagined I loved her!
“Still the actor! You did love her once, but you were so pleased with yourself to think that you could love another beside yourself that you forgot about her almost immediately. You’ve been watching yourself make love. You drove her to this in order to feel again. To lose her would be to find her again.”
I pinched myself, as if to convince myself that I was capable of feeling.
“Yes, you are not made of wood. You have feelings—but they’re misdirected. Your heart works spasmodically. You’re grateful to those who make your heart bleed; you don’t suffer for them, you suffer in order to enjoy the luxury of suffering. You haven’t begun to suffer yet; you’re only suffering vicariously.”
There was some truth in what I was telling myself. Ever since I had entered the room I had been preoccupied with how I should act, how I should express my feelings. As for that last-minute business with Maude—that was excusable. My feelings had switched, that was all. Fate had tricked me. Maude, pfui! I didn’t give a fuck about her. I couldn’t remember when she had ever stirred any real feeling in me. What a cruel piece of irony it would be if Mona were to discover the truth! How could I ever explain such a dilemma? At the very moment I am betraying her, as she divined, Kronski is telling her how faithful and devoted I am. And Kronski was right! But Kronski must have suspected, when he was telling her the truth, that it was built on a lie. He was affirming his faith in me because he himself wanted to believe in me. Kronski was no fool. And he was probably a far better friend than I had ever estimated him to be. If only he didn’t show such eagerness to reach into my guts! If only he would quit driving me into the open.
Curley’s remark returned
to plague me. Kronski had behaved so wonderfully—as if he were making love to her! Why was it that I always got a thrill when I thought of someone making love to her? Jealous? I was quite willing to be made jealous if only I could witness this power she had of making others love her. My ideal—it gave me quite a shock to formulate it!—was that of a woman who had the world at her feet. If I thought there were men impervious to her charms I would deliberately aid her to ensnare them. The more lovers she garnered the greater my own personal triumph. Because she did love me, that there was no doubt about. Had she not singled me out from all the others, I, who had so little to offer her?