by Henry Miller
Naturally it was the first and last meal of its kind. Still, it was a good gesture. After all, I deserved no signal respect or attention for the honorable work I was performing.
Each day the work grew a little tougher. The great moment came when I stood at the bottom of the hole swinging shovelsful of dirt over my shoulder. A beautiful piece of work.
A hole in the ground? There are holes and holes. This was a consecrated hole. A special, from Adam Cadmus to Adam Omega.
I was all in the day I got to the bottom. I had been the digger and the dug. Yes, it was at the bottom of the grave, shovel in hand, that I realized there was something symbolic about my efforts. Though another man’s body would occupy this hole nevertheless I felt as if it were my own funeral. (J’aurai un bel enterrement.) It was a droll book, this I’ll have a fine funeral. But it wasn’t droll standing in the bottomless pit seized by a sense of foreboding. Maybe I was digging my own grave, symbolically speaking. Well, another day or two and my initiation would be finished. I could stand it. Besides, soon I would be touching my first pay. What an event! Not that it represented a great sum. No, but I had earned it by the sweat of the brow.
It was now Thursday. Then Friday. Then payday.
Thursday, this day of foreboding, the atmosphere at home seemed permeated with a new element. I couldn’t say what it was precisely that disturbed me so. Certainly not because they were preternaturally gay. They often had such streaks. They were over expectant, that’s the only way I can put it. But of what? And the way they smiled upon me—the sort of smile one gives a child who is impatient to know. Smiles which said—Just wait, you’ll find out soon enough! The most disturbing thing was that nothing I said irritated them. They were un-shakably complacent.
The next evening, Friday, they came home with berets. What’s come over them? I said to myself. Do they think they’re in Paris already? They lingered inordinately over their ablutions. And they were singing again, singing like mad—one in the tub, the other under the shower. Let me call you sweet-heart, I’m in love … ooo—oo—oo. Followed by Tipperary. Right jolly it was. How they laughed and giggled! Brimming over with happiness, bless their little hearts!
I couldn’t resist taking a peek at them. There was Stasia standing up in the tub scrubbing her pussy. She didn’t scream or even say Oh! As for Mona, she had just emerged from the shower, with a towel flung about her middle.
I’ll rub you down, I said, grabbing the towel.
While I rubbed and patted and stroked her she kept purring like a cat. Finally I doused her all over with cologne water. She enjoyed that too.
You’re so wonderful, she said. I do love you, Val. I really do. She embraced me warmly.
To-morrow you get paid, don’t you? she said. I wish you would buy me a brassiere and a pair of stockings. I need them bad.
Of course, I replied. Isn’t there anything else you would like?
No, that’s all, Val dear.
Sure? I can get you anything you need—to-morrow.
She gave me a coy look.
All right then, just one thing more.
What’s that?
A bunch of violets.
We rounded off this scene of connubial bliss with a royal fuck which was twice interrupted by Stasia who pretended to be searching for something or other and who continued to pace up and down the hall even after we had quieted down.
Then something really weird occurred. Just as I was dozing off who should come to the bedside, bend over me tenderly and kiss me on the forehead, but Stasia. Goodnight, she said. Pleasant dreams!
I was too exhausted to bother my head with interpretations of this strange gesture. Lonely, that’s what! was all I could think at the moment.
In the morning they were up and about before I had rubbed the sand out of my eyes. Still cheerful, still eager to give me pleasure. Could it be the salary I was bringing home that had gone to their heads? And why strawberries for breakfast? Strawberries smothered in heavy cream. Whew!
Then another unusual thing occurred. As I was leaving, Mona insisted on escorting me to the street.
What’s the matter? I said. Why this?
I want to see you off, that’s all. She threw me one of those smiles—the indulgent mother kind.
She remained standing at the railing, in her light kimono, as I trotted off. Half-way down the block I turned to see if she was still there. She was. She waved goodbye. I waved back.
In the train I settled down for a brief snooze. What a beautiful way to begin the day! (And no more graves to be dug.) Strawberries for breakfast. Mona waving me off. Everything so ducky, so as it should be. Superlatively so. At last I had hit the groove…
Saturdays we worked only a half day. I collected my wages, had lunch with Tony, during which he explained what my new duties would be, then we took a spin through the Park, and finally I set out for home. On the way I bought two pairs of stockings, a brassiere, a bouquet of Violets—and a German cheese cake. (The cheese cake was a treat for myself.)
It was dark by the time I arrived in front of the house. There were no lights on inside. Funny, I thought. Were they playing hide and seek with me? I walked in, lit a couple of candles, and threw a quick look around. Something was amiss. For a sec I thought we had been visited by burglars. A glance at Stasia’s room only heightened my apprehension. Her trunk and valise were gone. In fact, the room was stripped of all her belongings. Had she fled the coop? Was that why the goodnight kiss? I inspected the other rooms. Some of the bureau drawers were open, discarded clothing was scattered all about. The state of disorder indicated that the evacuation had been wild and sudden like. That sinking feeling that I had experienced standing at the bottom of the grave came over me.
At the desk near the window I thought I saw a piece of paper—a note perhaps. Sure enough, under a paper weight was a note scrawled in pencil. It was in Mona’s hand.
Dear Val, it ran. We sailed this morning on the Rochambeau. Didn’t have the heart to tell you. Write care of American Express, Paris. Love.
I read it again. One always does when it’s a fateful message. Then I sank on to the chair at the desk. At first the tears came slowly, drop by drop, as it were. Then they gushed forth. Soon I was sobbing. Terrible sobs that ripped me from stem to stern. How could she do this to me? I knew they were going without me—but not like this. Running off like two naughty children. And that last minute act—bring me a bunch of violets! Why? To throw me off the track? Was that necessary? Had I become as a child? Only a child is treated thus.
In spite of the sobs my anger rose. I raised my fist and cursed them for a pair of double-crossing bitches; I prayed that the ship would sink, I swore that I’d never send them a penny, never, even if they were starving to death. Then, to relieve the anguish, I rose to my feet and hurled the paper weight at the photo above the desk. Grabbing a book, I smashed another picture. From room to room I moved, smashing everything in sight. Suddenly I noticed a heap of discarded clothing in a corner. It was Mona’s. I picked up each article—panties, brassiere, blouse—and automatically sniffed them. They still reeked of the perfume she used. I gathered them up and stuffed them under my pillow. Then I began to yell. I yelled and yelled and yelled. And when I had finished yelling I started singing—Let me call you sweetheart … I’m in love with you-ou-ou … The cheese cake was staring me in the face. Fuck you! I shouted, and raising it above my head I splattered it against the wall.
It was at this point that the door softly opened and there with hands clasped over her bosom stood one of the Dutch sisters from upstairs.
My poor man, my poor, dear man, said she, coming close and making as if to throw her arms around me. Please, please don’t take it so hard! I know how you feel … yes, it’s terrible. But they will come back.
This tender little speech started the tears flowing again. She put her arms around me, kissed me on both cheeks. I made no objection. Then she led me to the bed and sat down, pulling me beside her.
In spite o
f my grief I couldn’t help noting her slovenly appearance. Over her frayed pajamas—she wore them all day apparently—she had thrown a stained kimono. Her stockings hung loosely about her ankles; hairpins were dangling from her mop of tousled hair. She was a frump, no mistake about it. Frump or no frump, however, she was genuinely distressed, genuinely concerned for me.
With one arm around my shoulder she told me gently but tactfully that she had been aware for some time of all that was going on. But I had to hold my tongue, she said. She paused now and then to permit me to give way to my grief. Finally she assured me that Mona loved me. Yes, she said, she loves you dearly.
I was about to protest these words when again the door opened softly and there stood the other sister. This one was better attired and more attractive looking. She came over and after a few soft words sat down on the other side of me. The two of them now held my hands in theirs. What a picture it must have been!
Such solicitude! Did they imagine that I was ready to blow my brains out? Over and over they assured me that everything was for the best. Patience, patience! In the end everything would work out well. It was inevitable, they said. Why? Because I was such a good person. God was testing me, that was all.
Often, said the one, we wanted to come down and console you, but we didn’t dare to intrude. We knew how you felt. We could tell when you paced back and forth, back and forth. It was heart-rending, but what could we do?
It was getting too much for me, all this sympathizing. I got up and lit a cigarette. The frumpy one now excused herself and ran upstairs.
She’ll be back in a minute, said the other. She began telling me about their life in Holland. Something she said, or the way she said it, caused me to laugh. She clapped her hands with delight. See, it’s not so bad after all, is it? You can still laugh.
With this I began to laugh harder, much harder. It was impossible to say whether I was laughing or weeping. I couldn’t stop.
There now, there now, she said, pressing me to her and cooing. Put your head on my shoulder. That’s it. My, but you have a tender hearth)
Ridiculous as it was, it felt good to give way on her shoulder. I even felt a slight stirring of sex, locked in her motherly embrace.
Her sister now reappeared bearing a tray on which there was a decanter, three glasses and some biscuits.
This will make you feel better, she said, pouring me a potion of schnaps.
We clinked glasses, as if it were a happy event we were celebrating, and swallowed. It was pure fire water.
Have another, said the other sister and refilled the glasses. There, doesn’t that feel good? It burns, eh? But it gives you spirit.
We had two or three more in rapid fire succession. Each time they said—There, don’t you feel better now?
Better or worse, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that my guts were on fire. And then the room began to spin.
Lie down, they urged, and grasping me by the arms they lowered me on to the bed. I stretched out full length helpless as a babe. They removed my coat, then my shirt, then my pants and shoes. I made no protest. They rolled me over and tucked me away.
Sleep a while, they said, we’ll call for you later. We’ll have dinner for you when you wake up.
I closed my eyes. The room spun round even faster now.
We’ll look after you, said the one.
We’ll take good care of you, said the other.
They tiptoed out of the room.
It was in the wee hours of the morning that I awoke. I thought the church bells were ringing. (Exactly what my mother said when trying to recall the hour of my birth.) I got up and read the note again. By now they were well out on the high seas. I was hungry. I found a piece of the cheese cake on the floor and gulped it down. I was even thirstier than I was hungry. I drank several glasses of water one after the other. My head ached a bit. Then I crept back to bed. But there was no more sleep in me. Toward daybreak I rose, dressed, and sallied out. Better to walk than lie there thinking. I’ll walk and walk, thought I, until I drop.
It didn’t work the way I thought. Fresh or fatigued, the thinking never stops. Round and round one goes, always over the same ground, always returning to the dead center: the unacceptable now.
How I passed the rest of the day is a complete blank. All I remember is that the heart-ache grew steadily worse. Nothing could assuage it. It wasn’t something inside me, it was me. I was the ache. A walking, talking ache. If only I could drag myself to the slaughter-house and have them fell me like an ox—it would have been an act of mercy. Just one swift blow—between the eyes. That, and only that, could kill the ache.
Monday morning I reported for work as usual. I had to wait a good hour before Tony showed up. When he did he took one look at me and said—What’s happened?
I told him briefly. All kindness, he said: Let’s go and have a drink. There’s nothing very pressing. His nibs won’t be in to-day, so there’s nothing to worry about.
We had a couple of drinks and then lunch. A good lunch followed by a good cigar. Never a word of reproach for Mona.
Only, as we were walking back to the office, did he permit himself a harmless observation. It beats me, Henry. I have plenty of troubles but never that kind.
At the office he outlined my duties once again. I’ll introduce you to the boys to-morrow, he said. (When you have a grip on yourself, is what he meant.) He added that I would find them easy to get along with.
Thus that day passed and the next.
I became acquainted with the other members of the office, all time servers, all waiting for that pension at the foot of the rainbow. Nearly all of them were from Brooklyn, all ordinary blokes, all speaking that dreary-bleary Brooklynese. But all of them eager to be of assistance.
There was one chap, a bookkeeper, to whom I took a fancy immediately. Paddy Mahoney was his name. He was an Irish Catholic, narrow as they make ‘em, argumentative, pugnacious, all the things I dislike, but because I hailed from the 14th Ward—he had been born and raised in Greenpoint—we got on famously. As soon as Tony and the Commissioner were gone he was at my desk ready to chew the rag the rest of the day.
Wednesday morning I found a radiogram on my desk. Must have fifty dollars before landing. Please cable immediately.
I showed the message to Tony when he appeared. What are you going to do? he said.
That’s what I want to know, I said.
You’re not going to send them money, are you … after what they did to you?
I looked at him helplessly. I’m afraid I’ll have to, I replied.
Don’t be a chump, he said. They made their bed, let them lie in it.
I had hoped that he would tell me I could borrow in advance on my salary. Crestfallen, I went back to my work. While working I kept wondering how and where I could raise such a sum. Tony was my only hope. But I didn’t have the heart to press him. I couldn’t—he had already done more for me than I deserved.
After lunch, which he usually shared with his political cronies at a bar in the Village nearby, he blew in with a big cigar in his mouth and smelling rather heavily of drink. He had a big smile on his face, the sort he used to wear at school when he was up to some devilment.
How’s it going? he said. Getting the hang of it, are you? Not such a bad place to work in, is it?
He tossed his hat over his shoulder, sank deep into his swivel chair and put his feet on the desk. Taking a good long pull on his cigar and turning slightly in my direction, he said: I guess I don’t understand women much, Henry. I’m a confirmed bachelor. You’re different. You don’t mind complications, I guess. Anyway, when you told me about the cable this morning I thought you were a fool. Right now I don’t think that way. You need help, and I’m the only one who can help you, I guess. Look, let me lend you what you need. I can’t get you an advance on your salary … you’re too new here for that. Besides, it would raise a lot of unnecessary questions. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad. You can pay me back five bucks a week,
if you like. But don’t let them bleed you for morel Be tough!
A few more words and he made ready to leave. Guess I’ll be off now. My work is finished for the day. If you run into a snag call me. Where? I said. Ask Paddy, he’ll tell you.
As the days passed the pain eased up. Tony kept me busy, purposely, no doubt. He also saw to it that I became acquainted with the head gardener. I would have to write a booklet one day about the plants, shrubs and trees in the park, he said. The gardener would wise me up.
Every day I expected another cablegram. I knew a letter wouldn’t reach me for days. Already in the hole, and hating to return each day to the scene of my distress, I decided to ask the folks to take me in. They agreed readily enough, though they were mystified by Mona’s behavior. I explained, of course, that it had been planned this way, that I was to follow later, and so on. They knew better, but refrained from humiliating me further. So I moved in. The Street of Early Sorrows. The same desk to write at which I had as a boy. (And which I never used.) Everything I owned was in my valise. I didn’t bring a single book with me.
It cost me another few dollars to cable Mona regarding the change of address and to warn her to write or wire me at the office.
As Tony had surmised, it wasn’t long before another cable arrived. This time they needed money for food and lodging. No jobs in sight as yet. On the heels of it came a letter, a brief one, telling me that they were happy, that Paris was just marvelous, and that I must find a way to join them soon. No hint of how they were managing.
Are they having a good time over there? Tony asked one day. Not asking for more dough, are they?
I hadn’t told him about the second cablegram. It was my uncle, the ticket speculator, who coughed up for that sum.
Sometimes, said Tony, I feel as if I’d like to see Paris myself. We might have a good time there together, eh?
