When you have suffered a great deal in a certain place you have the impression that the record is imprinted in the street. But if you notice, streets seem peculiarly unaffected by the sufferings of private individuals. If you step out of a house at night, after losing a dear friend, the street seems really quite discreet. If the outside became like the inside it would be unbearable. Streets are breathing places. . . .
I move along, trying to get definite without developing a fixed idea. I pass garbage cans loaded with bones and refuse. Some have put old shoes, busted slippers, hats, suspenders, and other worn-out articles in front of their dwellings. There is no doubt but that if I took to prowling around at night I could live quite handsomely off the discarded crumbs.
The life in the kennel is out, that’s definite. I don’t feel like a dog any more anyway . . . I feel more like a tomcat. The cat is independent, anarchistic, a freewheeler. It’s the cat which rules the roost at night.
Getting hungry again. I wander down to the bright lights of Borough Hall where the cafeterias blaze. I look through the big windows to see if I can detect a friendly face. Pass on, from shop window to shop window, examining shoes, haberdashery, pipe tobaccos and so forth. Then I stand a while at the subway entrance, hoping forlornly that someone will drop a nickel without noticing it. I look the newsstands over to see if there are any blind men from whom I can steal a few pennies.
After a time I am walking the bluff at Columbia Heights. I pass a sedate brownstone house which I remember entering years and years ago to deliver a package of clothes to one of my father’s customers. I remember standing in the big back room with the bay windows giving out on the river. It was a day of brilliant sunshine, a late afternoon, and the room was like a Vermeer. I had to help the old man on with his clothes. He was ruptured. Standing in the middle of the room in his balbriggan underwear he seemed positively obscene.
Below the bluff lay a street full of warehouses. The terraces of the wealthy homes were like overhanging gardens, ending abruptly some twenty or thirty feet above this dismal street with its dead windows and grim archways leading to the wharves. At the end of the street I stood against a wall to take a leak. A drunk comes along and stands beside me. He pees all over himself and then suddenly he doubles up and begins to vomit. As I walk away I can hear it splashing over his shoes.
I run down a long flight of stairs leading to the docks and find myself face to face with a man in uniform swinging a big stick. He wants to know what I’m about, but before I can answer he begins to shove me and brandish his stick.
I climb back up the long flight of stairs and sit on a bench. Facing me is an old-fashioned hotel where a schoolteacher who used to be sweet on me lives. The last time I saw her I had taken her out to dinner and as I was saying goodbye I had to beg her for a nickel. She gave it to me—just a nickel—with a look I shall never forget. She had placed high hopes on me when I was a student. But that look told me all too plainly that she had definitely revised her opinion of me. She might just as well have said: “You’ll never be able to cope with the world!”
The stars were very very bright. I stretched out on the bench and gazed at them intently. All my failures were now tightly bound up inside me, a veritable embryo of unfulfillment. All that had happened to me now seemed extremely remote. I had nothing to do but revel in my detachment. I began to voyage from star to star. . . .
An hour or so later, chilled to the bone, I got to my feet and began walking briskly. An insane desire to repass the house I had been driven from took possession of me. I was dying to know if they were still up and about.
The shades were only partially drawn and the light from a candle near the bed gave the front room a quiet glow. I stole close to the window and put my ear to it. They were singing a Russian song which the big one was fond of. Apparently all was his bliss in there.
I tiptoed out of the areaway and turned down Love Lane, which was at the corner. It had been named Love Lane during the Revolution most likely; now it was simply a back alley dotted with garages and repair shops. Garbage cans strewn about like captured chess pieces.
I retraced my steps to the river, to that grim, dismal street which ran like a shriveled urethra beneath the overhanging terraces of the rich. Nobody ever walked through this street late at night—it was too dangerous.
Not a soul about. The passageways tunneled through the warehouses gave fascinating glimpses of the river life—barges lying lifeless, tugs gliding by like smoking ghosts, the skyscrapers silhouetted against the New York shore, huge iron stanchions with cabled hawsers slung around them, piles of bricks and lumber, sacks of coffee. The most poignant sight was the sky itself. Swept clear of clouds and studded with fistfuls of stars, it gleamed like the breastplate of the high priests of old.
Finally I made to go through an archway. About halfway through I felt a huge rat race across my feet. I stopped with a shudder and another one slid over my feet. Then a panic seized me and I ran back to the street. On the other side of the street, close to the wall, a man was standing. I stood stock-still, undecided which way to turn, hoping that this silent figure would move first. But he remained immobile, watching me like a hawk. Again I felt panicky, but this time I steeled myself to walk away, fearing that if I ran he would also run. I walked as noiselessly as possible, my ear cocked to catch the sound of his steps. I didn’t dare to turn my head. I walked slowly, deliberately, barely putting my heels down.
I had only walked a few yards when I had the certain sensation that he was following me, not on the other side of the street, but directly behind me, perhaps only a few yards away. I hastened my steps, still however making no sound. It seemed to me that he was moving faster than I, that he was gaining on me. I could almost feel his breath on my neck. Suddenly I took a quick look around. He was there, almost within grasp. I knew I couldn’t elude him now. I had a feeling that he was armed and that he would use his weapon, knife or gun, the moment I tried to make a dash for it.
Instinctively I turned like a flash and dove for his legs. He tumbled over my back and struck his head against the pavement. I knew I hadn’t the strength to grapple with him. Again I had to move fast. He was just rolling over, slightly stunned, it seemed, as I sprang to my feet. His hand was reaching for his pocket. I kicked out and caught him square in the stomach.
He groaned and rolled over. I bolted. I ran with all the strength I had in me. But the street was steep, and long before I had come to the end of it, I had to break into a walk. I turned again and listened. It was too dark to tell whether he had risen to his feet or was still lying there on the sidewalk. Not a sound except the wild beating of my heart, the hammering of my temples. I leaned against the wall to catch my breath. I felt terribly weak, ready to faint. I wondered if I would have the strength to climb to the top of the hill.
Just as I was congratulating myself on my narrow escape I saw a shadow creeping along the wall down where I had left him. This time my fear turned my legs to lead. I was absolutely paralyzed. I watched him creeping closer and closer, unable to stir a muscle. He seemed to divine what had happened; his pace never quickened.
When he got within a few feet of me he flashed a gun. With that I instinctively put up my hands. He came up to me and frisked me. Then he put his gun back in his hip pocket. Never a word out of him. He went through my pockets, found nothing, cuffed me in the jaw with the back of his hand and then stepped back towards the gutter.
“Put your hands down,” he said, low and tense.
I dropped them like two flails. I was petrified with fright.
He pulled the gun out again, leveled it, and said in the same even, low, tense voice: “I’m givin’ it to you in the guts, you dirty dog!” With that I collapsed. As I fell I heard the bullet spatter against the wall. It was the end. I expected a fusillade. I remember trying to curl up like a fetus, crooking my elbow over my eyes to protect them. Then came the fusillade. And then I heard him running.
I knew I must be dying, but I felt no pai
n.
Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t even been scratched. I sat up and I saw a man running after the fleeing assailant with a gun in his hand. He fired a few shots as he ran but they must have gone wide of the mark.
I rose to my feet unsteadily, felt myself all over again to make certain that I was really unhurt, and waited for the guard to return.
“Could you help me,” I begged. “I’m pretty rocky.”
He looked at me suspiciously, the gun still in his hand.
“What the hell are you doing here this hour of the night?”
“I’m weak as a cat,” I mumbled. “I’ll tell you later. Help me home, will you?”
I told him where I lived, that I was a writer, that I had been out for a breath of fresh air. “He cleaned me out,” I added. “Lucky you came along . . .”
A little more of this lingo and he softened up enough to say—“Here, take this and get yourself a cab. You’re all right, I guess.” He thrust a dollar bill in my hand.
I found a cab in front of a hotel and ordered the driver to take me to Love Lane. On the way I stopped to get a package of cigarettes.
The lights were out this time. I went up by the stoop and slid lightly down to the hallway. Not a sound. I put my ear to the door of the front room and listened intently. Then I stole softly back to the little cell at the end of the hall where the big one usually slept. I had the feeling that the room was deserted. Slowly I turned the knob. When I had opened the door sufficiently I sank to all fours and crept in on hands and knees, feeling my way carefully to the bed. There I raised my hand and felt the bed. It was empty. I undressed quickly and crawled in. There were some cigarette butts at the foot of the bed—they felt like dead beetles.
In a moment I was sound asleep. I dreamt that I was lying in the corner by the hearth, with a coat of fur, padded paws and long ears. Between my paws was a bone which had been licked clean. I was guarding it jealously, even in my sleep. A man entered and gave me a kick in the ribs. I pretended not to feel it. He kicked me again, as though to make me growl—or perhaps it was to make me let go of the bone.
“Stand up!” he said, flourishing a whip which had been hidden behind his back.
I was too weak to move. I looked up at him with piteous, bleary eyes, imploring him mutely to leave me in peace.
“Come on, get out of here!” he muttered, raising the butt end of the whip as if to strike.
I staggered to all fours and tried to hobble away. My spine seemed to be broken. I caved in, collapsed like a punctured bag.
The man coldly raised the whip again and with the butt end cracked me over the skull. I let out a howl of pain. Enraged at this, he grasped the whip by the butt end and began lashing me unmercifully. I tried to raise myself but it was no use—my spine was broken. I wriggled over the floor like an octopus, receiving lash after lash. The fury of the blows had taken my breath away. It was only after he had gone, thinking that I was done for, that I began to give vent to my agony. At first I began to whimper; then, as my strength returned, I began to scream and howl. The blood was oozing from me as if I were a sponge. It flowed out in all directions, making a big dark spot, as in the animated cartoons. My voice got weaker and weaker. Now and then I let out a yelp.
When I opened my eyes the two women were bending over me, shaking me.
“Stop it, for God’s sake, stop it!” the big one was saying.
The other was saying: “My God, Val, what’s happened? Wake up, wake up!”
I sat up and looked at them with a dazed expression. I was naked and my body was full of blood and bruises.
“Where have you been? What happened?” Their voices now chimed together.
“I was dreaming, I guess.” I tried to smile but the smile faded into a distorted grin. “Look at my back,” I begged. “It feels broken.”
They lay me back on the bed and turned me over, as if I had been marked “fragile.”
“You’re full of bruises. You must have been beaten up.”
I closed my eyes and tried to remember what had happened. All I could recall was the dream, that brute standing over me with a whip and lashing me. He had kicked me in the ribs, as if I were a mangy cur. (“I’ll give it to you in the guts, you dirty dog!”) My back was broken, I remembered distinctly. I had caved in and sprawled out on the floor like an octopus. And in that helpless position he had lashed away with a fury that was inhuman.
“Let him sleep,” I heard the big one say.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” said the other.
They began to argue.
“Go away, leave me alone,” I muttered.
It was quiet again. I fell asleep. I dreamt that I was in the dog show; I was a chow and I had a blue ribbon around my neck. In the next booth was another chow; he had a pink ribbon around his neck. It was a tossup which of us would win the prize.
Two women whom I seemed to recognize were bickering about our respective merits and demerits. Finally the judge came over and placed his hand on my neck. The big woman strode away angrily, spitting in disgust. But the woman whose pet I was bent over and, holding me by the ears, raised my head and kissed me on the snout. “I knew you would win the prize for me,” she whispered. “You’re such a lovely, lovely creature,” and she began stroking my fur. “Wait a moment, my darling, and I’ll bring you something nice. Just a moment . . .”
When she returned she had a little package in her hand; it was wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a beautiful ribbon. She held it up before me and I stood on my hind legs and barked. “Woof woof! Woof woof!”
“Take it easy, dear,” she said, undoing the package slowly. “Mother’s brought you a beautiful little present.”
“Woof woof! Woof woof!”
“That’s a darling . . . that’s it. . . easy now . . . easy.”
I was furiously impatient to receive my gift. I couldn’t understand why she was taking so long. It must be something terribly precious, I thought to myself.
The package was almost unwrapped now. She was holding the little gift behind her back.
“Up, up! That’s it. . . up!”
I got to my hind legs and began prancing and pirouetting.
“Now beg! Beg for it!”
“Woof woof! Woof woof!” I was ready to jump out of my skin with joy.
Suddenly she dangled it before my eyes. It was a magnificent knucklebone, full of marrow, encircled by a gold wedding ring. I was furiously eager to seize it but she held it high above her head, tantalizing me mercilessly. Finally, to my astonishment, she stuck her tongue out and began to suck the marrow into her mouth. She turned it around and sucked from the other end. When she had made a clean hole through and through she caught hold of me and began to stroke me. She did it so masterfully that in a few seconds I stood out like a raw turnip. Then she took the bone (with the wedding ring still around it) and she slipped it over the raw turnip. “Now you little darling, I’m going to take you home and put you to bed.” And with that she picked me up and walked off, everybody laughing and clapping hands. Just as we got to the door the bone slid off and fell to the ground. I tried to scramble out of her arms, but she held me tight to her bosom. I began to whimper.
“Hush, hush!” she said, and sticking her tongue out, she licked my face. “You dear, lovely, little creature!”
“Woof woof! Woof woof!” I barked. “Woof! Woof, woof, woof!”
*A German-American quarter in Brooklyn.
* “Moon” is cipher language for the blind.
* Messengers, relayed from their own office to another to help out when there is a shortage.
* All characters from Knut Hamsun’s books.
* By Arthur Machen.
* Broadway, Brooklyn.
Henry Miller, Sexus
(Series: # )
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