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.
18
The day of the trial I presented myself at court in a bright and supercilious mood. Everything had been agreed upon beforehand.
I had only to raise my hand, swear a silly oath, admit my guilt and take the punishment. The judge looked like a scarecrow fitted with a pair of lunar binoculars; his black wings flapped lugubriously in the hushed silence of the room. He seemed to be slightly annoyed by my serene complacency; it did not bolster the illusion of his importance, which was absolutely nil. I could make no distinction between him and the brass rail, between him and the cuspidor. The brass rail, the Bible, the cuspidor, the American flag, the blotter on his desk, the thugs in uniform who preserved order and decorum, the knowledge that was tucked away in his brain cells, the musty books in his study, the philosophy that underlay the whole structure of the law, the eyeglasses he wore, his B.V.D.’s, his person and his personality, the whole ensemble was a senseless collaboration in the name of a blind machine about which I didn’t give a fuck in the dark. All I wanted was to know that I was definitely free to put my head in the noose again.
It was all going like tick-tack-toe, one thing canceling another, and at the end of course the law squashing you down as if you were a fat, juicy bedbug, when suddenly I realized that he was asking me if I were willing to pay such and such an amount of alimony regularly for the rest of my days.
“What’s that?” I demanded. The prospect of at last encountering some opposition caused him to brighten appreciably. He reeled off some gibberish about solemnly agreeing to pay the sum of something or other.
“I agree to no such thing,” I said emphatically. “I intend to pay”—and here I mentioned a sum that was double the amount he had named.
It was his turn to say “What’s that?”
I repeated myself. He looked at me as though I had lost my senses, then, swiftly, as though he were trapping me, he snapped out: “Very good! We’ll make it as you wish. It’s your funeral.”
“It’s my pleasure and privilege,” I retorted.
“Sir!”
I repeated myself. He gave me a withering look, beckoned to the lawyer to approach, leaned over and whispered something in his ear. I had the distinct impression that he was asking the lawyer if I were in my sound senses. Apparently assured that I was, he looked up and, fixing a stony gaze upon me, he said: “Young man, do you know what the penalty is for failure to meet your obligations?”
“No sir,” I said, “nor do I care to hear it. Are we through now? I’ve got to get back to my job.”
It was a beautiful day outdoors. I started walking aimlessly. Soon I was at the Brooklyn Bridge. I started walking over the bridge, but after a few minutes I lost heart, turned round and dove into the subway. I had no intention of going back to the office; I had been given a day off and I intended to make the most of it.
At Times Square I got off and walked instinctively towards the French-Italian restaurant over near Third Avenue. It was cool and dark in the back of the grocery store where they served the food. At lunchtime there never were many customers. Soon there was only myself and a big, sprawling Irish girl who had already made herself quite drunk. We fell into a strange conversation about the Catholic Church during the course of which she repeated like a refrain: “The Pope’s all right, but I refuse to kiss his ass.”
Finally she pushed her chair back, struggled to her feet, and tried to walk towards the lavatory. (The lavatory was used by men and women alike and was in the hall.) I saw that she would never make it alone. I got up and held her by the arm. She was thoroughly potted and lurching like a storm-tossed ship.
As we got to the door of the lavatory she begged me to help her on to the seat. I stood her by the seat so that all she had to do was to sit down. She hitched up her skirt and tried to pull her panties down, but the effort was too much. “Pull ’em down for me, will you,” she begged with a sleepy grin. I did as she asked, patted her cunt affectionately, and sat her down on the seat. Then I turned to go.
“Don’t go!” she whined, clutching my hand, and with that she began emptying her tank. I held on while she finished the job, Nos. 1 and 2, with stink bombs and everything. Throughout the operation she repeated over and over: “No, I won’t kiss the Pope’s ass!” She looked so absolutely helpless that I thought perhaps I’d have to wipe her ass for her. However, from long years of training she managed to do this much for herself, though it took an incredibly long time. I was about ready to throw up when finally she asked me to lift her up. As I was pulling her bloomers up I couldn’t help rubbing my hand over her rosebush. It was tempting, but the stench was too powerful to dally with that idea.
As I assisted her out of the toilet the patronne espied us and nodded her head sadly. I wondered if she realized what chivalry it took for me to perform this act. Anyway, we went back to the table, ordered some black coffee, and sat talking a little while longer. As she sobered up she became almost disgustingly grateful. She said if I would take her home I could have her—she wanted to make it up to me. “I’ll take a bath and change my things,” she said. “I feel filthy. It was filthy too, God help me.”
I told her I would see her home in a taxi, but that I wouldn’t be able to stay with her.
“Now you’re getting delicate,” she said. “What’s the matter, ain’t I good enough for you? It ain’t my fault, is it, if I had to go to the toilet? You go to the toilet too, don’t you? Wait till I take a bath—you’ll see what I look like. Listen, give me your hand!” I gave her my hand and she put it under her skirt, right on her bushy cunt. “Take a good feel of it,” she urged. “You like it? Well, it’s all yours. I’ll scrub it and perfume it for you. You can take all you like of it. I’m not a bad lay. And I’m not a tart either, see! I got cockeyed, that’s all. A guy walked out on me, and I was crazy enough to take it to heart. He’ll come crawling back before long, don’t you worry. But Jesus, I did have my heart set on him. I told him I wouldn’t kiss the Pope’s ass—and that got him sore. I’m a good Catholic, same as he, but I can’t see the Pope as Christ Almighty, can you?”
She went on with her monologue, jumping from one thing to another like a goat. I gathered that she was a switchboard operator in a big hotel. She wasn’t such a bad sort, either, down under her Irish skin. I could see that she might be very attractive, once the fumes of the alcohol cleared away. She had very blue eyes and jet-black hair, and a smile that was sly and puckish. Maybe I would run up and help her with her bath. I could always run out on her if anything went amiss. The thing that bothered me was that I was to meet Mona for dinner. I was to wait for her in the Rose Room of the McAlpin Hotel.
We got in a taxi and drove uptown. In the cab she rested her head on my shoulder. “You’re awfully good to me,” she said in a sleepy voice. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re O.K. with me. Jesus, I wish I could take a nap first. Would you wait for me?”
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe I’ll take a nap too.”
The apartment was cozy and attractive, better than I had expected it to be. She had no sooner opened the door than she kicked off her shoes. I helped her undress.
As she stood before the mirror, nude except for her panties. I had to admit that she possessed a beautiful figure. Her breasts were white and full, round and taut, with bright strawberry-colored nipples.
“Why don’t you take those off too?” I said, pointing to the panties.
“No, not now,” she said, suddenly becoming coy, her cheeks coloring slightly.
“I took them off before,” I said. “What’s the difference now?” I put my hand on her waist as if to pull them down. “Don’t, please!” she begged. “Wait till I have my bath.” She paused a moment, then added: “I’m just getting over my period.”
That settled it for me. I saw the ringworms flowering again. I got panicky.
“All right,” I said, “take your bath! I’ll stretch out in here while you’re at it.”
“Won’t you scrub my back for me?” she said, her lips curling in that puckish smile of hers.
“Why sure I will . . . certainly,” I said. I led her to the bathroom, half pushing her along in my haste to get rid of her.
> As she slipped out of the panties I noticed a dark bloodstain. Not on your life, I thought to myself. No sir, not in my sound senses I don’t. Kiss the Pope’s ass—never!
But as she lay there soaping herself I felt myself weakening. I took the soap from her hand and scrubbed her bush for her. She squirmed with pleasure as my soapy fingers entwined themselves in her hair.
“I think it’s finished,” she said, arching her pelvis and spreading her cunt open with her two hands. “You look . . . do you see anything?”
I put the soapy middle finger of my right hand up her cunt and massaged it gently. She lay back with her hands clasped behind her head and slowly gyrated her pelvis. “Jesus, that feels good,” she said. “Go on, do it some more. Maybe I won’t need a nap.”