Sexus: The Rosy Crucifixion, Book I

by Henry Miller

  In Italy you eat better than this, Joe was explaining to Mona and myself. Better meat, better vegetables, better fruit. In Italy you have sunshine all day. And music! Everybody sing. Here everybody look sad. I don't understand. Plenty money, plenty jobs, but everybody sad. This is no country to live in ... only good to make money. Another two-three years and I go back to Italy. I take Louis with me and we open a little restaurant. Not for money ... just have something to do. In Italy nobody make money. Everybody poor. But god-damn, Mr. Miller ... excuse me ... we have good time! Plenty beautiful women ... plenty! You lucky to have such a beautiful wife. She like Italy, your wife. Italians very good people. Everybody treat you right. Everybody make friends rightaway...

  It was in bed that night that we began to talk about Europe. We've got to go to Europe, Mona was saying.

  Yeah, but how?

  I don't know, Val, but we'll find a way.

  Do you realize how much money it takes to go to Europe?

  That doesn't matter. If we want to go we'll raise the money somehow...

  We were lying flat on our backs, hands clasped behind our heads, looking straight up into the darkness—and voyaging like mad. I had boarded the Orient Express for Baghdad. It was a familiar journey to me because I had read about this trip in one of Dos Passo's books. Vienna, Budapest, Sofia, Belgrade, Athens, Constantinople ... Perhaps if we got that far we might also get to Timbuctoo. I knew a lot about Timbuctoo also—from books. Mustn't forget Taormina! And that cemetery in Stamboul which Pierre Loti had written about. And Jerusalem...

  What are you thinking about now? I asked, nudging her gently.

  I was visiting my folks in Roumanian In Roumania? Whereabouts in Roumania? I don't know exactly. Somewhere in the Carpathian mountains.

  I had a messenger once, a crazy Dutchman, who used to write me long letters from the Carpathian mountains. He was staying at the palace of the Queen...

  Wouldn't you like to go to Africa too—Morocco, Algeria, Egypt?

  That's just what I was dreaming about a moment ago.

  I've always wanted to go into the desert ... and get lost there.

  That's funny, so have I. I'm crazy about the desert.

  Silence. Lost in the desert-Somebody is talking to me. We've been having a long conversation. And I'm not in the desert any more but on Sixth Avenue under an elevated station.

  My friend Ulric is placing his hand on my shoulder and smiling at me reassuringly. He is repeating what he said a moment ago—that I will be happy in Europe. He talks again about Mt. Aetna, about grapes, about leisure, idleness, good food, sunshine. He drops a seed in me.

  Sixteen years later on a Sunday morning, accompanied by a native of the Argentine and a French whore from Montmartre, I am strolling leisurely through a cathedral in Naples. I feel as though I have at least seen a house of worship that I would enjoy praying in. It belongs not to God or the Pope, but to the Italian people. It's a huge, barn-like place, fitted out in the worst taste, with all the trappings dear to the Catholic heart. There is plenty of floor space, empty floor space, I mean. People sail in through the various portals and walk about with the utmost freedom. They give the impression of being on a holiday. Children gambol about like lambs, some with little nose-gays in their hand. People walk up to one another and exchange greetings, quite as if they were in the street. Along the walls are statues of the martyrs in various postures; they reek of suffering. I have a strong desire to run my hand over the cold marble, as if to urge them not to suffer too much, it's indecent. As I approach one of the statues I notice out of the corner of my eye a woman all in black kneeling before a sacred object. She is the image of piety. But I can't help noticing that she is also the possessor of an exquisite ass, a musical ass, I might say. (The ass tells you everything about a woman, her character, her temperament, whether she is sanguine, morbid, gay or fickle, whether she is responsive or unresponsive, whether she is maternal or pleasure-loving, whether she is truthful or lying by nature.)

  I was interested in that ass, as well as the piety in which it was smothered. I looked at it so intently that finally the owner of it turned round, her hands still raised in prayer, her lips moving as if she were chewing oats in her sleep. She gave me a look of reproach, blushed deeply, then turned her gaze back to the object of adoration, which I now observed was one of the saints, a dejected crippled martyr who seemed to be climbing up a hill with a broken back.

  I respectfully moved away in search of my companions. The activity of the throng reminded me of the lobby of the Hotel Astor—and of the canvases of Uccello (that fascinating world of perspective!). It reminded me also of the Caledonian market, London, with its vast clutter of gimcrackery. It was beginning to remind me of a lot of things, of everything, in fact, but the house of worship which it was. I half expected to see Malvolio or Mercutio enter in full tights. I saw one man, obviously a barber, who reminded me vividly of Werner Krause in

  Othello. I recognized an organ grinder from New York whom I had once tracked to his lair behind the City Hall.

  Above all I was fascinated by they tremendous Gorgon-like heads of the old men of Naples. They seemed to emerge full-blown out of the Renaissance: great lethal cabbages with fiery coals in their foreheads. Like the Urizens of William Blake's imagination. They moved about condescendingly, these animated heads, as if patronizing the nefarious Mysteries of the mundane Church and her spew of scarlet-robed pimps.

  I felt very very much at home. It was a bazaar which made sense. It was operatic, mercurial, tonsorial. The buzz-buzz at the altar was discreet and elegant, a sort of veiled boudoir atmosphere in which the priest, assisted by his gelded acolytes, washed his socks in holy water. Behind the glittering surplices were little trellised doors, such as the mountebanks used in the popular street shows of medieval times. Anything might spring out at you from those mysterious little doors. Here was the altar of confusion, bangled and diademed with baubles, smelling of grease paint, incense, sweat and dereliction. It was like the last act of a gaudy comedy, a banal play dealing with prostitution and ending in prophylactics. The performers inspired affection and sympathy; they were not sinners, they were vagrants. Two thousand years of fraud and humbug had culminated in this side-show. It was all flip and tutti-frutti, a gaudy, obscene carnival in which the Redeemer, made of plaster of Paris, took on the appearance of a eunuch in petticoats. The women prayed for children and the men prayed for food to stuff the hungry mouths. Outside, on the sidewalk, were heaps of vegetables, fruits, flowers and sweets. The barber shops were wide open and little boys, resembling the progeny of Fra Angelico, stood with big fans and drove the flies away. A beautiful city, alive in every member, and drenched with sunlight. In the background Vesuvius, a sleepy cone emitting a lazy curl of smoke. I was in Italy—I was certain of it. It was all that I had expected it to be. And then suddenly I realized that she was not with me, and for a moment I was saddened. Then I wondered ... wondered about the seed and its fruition. For that night, when we went to bed hungering for Europe, something quickened in me. Years had rolled by ... short, terrible years, in which every seed that had ever quickened seemed to be mashed to a pulp. Our rhythm had speeded up, hers in a physical way, mine in a more subtle way. She leaped forward feverishly, her very walk changing over into the lope of an antelope. I seemed to stand still, making no progress, but spinning like a top. She had her eyes set on the goal, but the faster she moved the farther removed became the goal. I knew I could never reach the goal this way. I moved my body about obediently, but always with an eye on the seed within. When I slipped and fell I fell softly, like a cat, or like a pregnant woman, always mindful of that which was growing inside me. Europe, Europe.... it was with me always, even when we were quarreling, shouting at each other like maniacs. Like a man obsessed, I brought every conversation back to the subject which alone interested me: Europe. Nights when we prowled about the city, searching like alley cats for scraps of food, the cities and peoples of Europe were in my mind. I was like a slav
e who dreams of freedom, whose whole being is saturated with one idea: escape. Nobody could have convinced me then that if I were offered the choice between her and my dream of Europe I would choose the latter. It would have seemed utterly fantastic, then, to suppose that it would be she herself who would offer me this choice. And perhaps even more fantastic still that the day I would sail for Europe I would have to ask my friend Ulric for ten dollars so as to have something in my pocket on touching my beloved European soil.

  That half-voiced dream in the dark, that night alone in the desert, the voice of Ulric comforting me, the Carpathian mountains moving up from under the moon, Timbuctoo, the camel bells, the smell of leather and of dry, scorched dung, (What are you thinking of? I too!) the tense, richly-filled silence, the blank, dead walls of the tenement opposite, the fact that Arthur Raymond was asleep, that in the morning he would continue his exercises, forever and ever, but that I had changed, that there were exits, loopholes, even though only in the imaginations, all this acted like a ferment and dynamized the days, months, years that lay ahead. It dynamized my love for her.

  It made me believe that what I could not accomplish alone I could accomplish with her, for her, through her, because of her. She became the water-sprinkler, the fertilizer, the hot-house, the mule pack, the pathfinder, the bread-winner, the gyroscope, the extra vitamin, the flame-thrower, the go-getter.

  From that day on things moved on greased skids. Get married? Sure, why not? Right away. Have you got the money for the license? No, but I'll borrow it. Fine. Meet you on the corner....

  We're in the Hudson Tubes on our way to Hoboken. Going to get married there. Why Hoboken? I don't remember. Perhaps to conceal the fact that I had been married before, perhaps we were a bit ahead of the legal schedule. Anyway, Hoboken.

  In the train we have a little tiff. The same old story—she's not sure that I want to marry her. Thinks I'm doing it just to please her.

  A station before Hoboken she jumps out of the train. I jump out too and run after her.

  What's the matter with you—are you mad?

  You don't love me. I'm not going to marry you.

  You are too, by God!

  I grab her and pull her back to the edge of the platform. As the next train pulls in I put my arms around her and embrace her.

  You're sure, Val? You're sure you want to marry me?

  I kiss her again. Come on, cut it out! You know damned well we're going to get married. We hop in.

  Hoboken. A sad, dreary place. A city more foreign to me than Pekin or Lhassa. Find the City Hall. Find a couple of bums to act as witnesses.

  The ceremony. What's your name? And your name? And his name? And so on. How long have you known this man? And this man is a friend of yours? Yes sir. Where did you pick him up—in the garbage can? O.K. Sign here. Bang, bang! Raise your right hand! I solemnly swear, etc, etc. Married. Five dollars, please. Kiss the bride. Next, please....

  Everybody happy?

  I want to spit.

  In the train.... I take her hand in mine. We're both depressed, humiliated. I'm sorry, Mona ... we shouldn't have done it that way.

  It's all right, Val. She's very quiet now. As though we had just buried some one.

  But it isn't all right, God damn it! I'm sore. I'm disgusted. That's no way to get married. I'll never....

  I checked myself. She looked at me with a startled expression.

  What were you going to say?

  I lied. I said: I'll never forgive myself for doing it that way.

  I became silent. Her lips were trembling.

  I don't want to go back to the house just yet, said she.

  Neither do I.

  Silence.

  I'll call up Ulric, said I. We'll have dinner with him, yes?

  Yes, she said, almost meekly.

  We got into a telephone booth together to call up Ulric. I had my arm around her. Now you're Mrs. Miller, I said. How does it feel?

  She began to weep. Hello, hello? That you, Ulric?

  No, it's me, Ned.

  Ulric wasn't there—had gone somewhere for the day.

  Listen, Ned, we just got married.

  Who got married? he said.

  Mona and I, of course ... who did you think?

  He was trying to joke about it, as though to say he couldn't be sure whom I would marry.

  Listen, Ned, it's serious. Maybe you've never been married before. We're depressed. Mona is weeping. I'm on the verge of tears myself. Can we come up there, drop in for a little while? We're lonely. Maybe you'll fix us a little drink, yes?

  Ned was laughing again. Of course we were to come—right away. He was expecting that cunt of his, Marcelle. But that wouldn't matter. He was getting sick of her. She was too good to him. She was fucking the life out of him. Yes, come up right away ... we'd all drown our sorrows.

  Well, don't worry, Ned'll have some money. We'll make him take us to dinner. I suppose nobody will think to give us a wedding present. That's the hell of getting married in this informal fashion. You know, when Maude and I got married we pawned some of the wedding gifts the next day. Never got them back again either. We wouldn't want a lot of knives and forks sterling, would we?

  Please don't talk that way, Val.

  I'm sorry. I guess I'm a bit screwy to-day. That ceremony let me down. I could have murdered that guy.

  Val, stop, I beg you!

  All right, we won't talk about it any more. Let's be gay now, what? Let's laugh....

  Ned had a warm smile. I liked Ned. He was weak. Weak and lovable. Selfish underneath. Very selfish. That's why he could never get married. He had talent too, lots of talent, but no genius, no sustaining powers. He was an artist who had never found his medium. His best medium was drink. When he drank he became expansive. In physique he reminded one of John Barrymore in his better days. His role was Don Juan, especially in a Finchley suit with an ascot tie about his throat. Lovely speaking voice. Rich baritone, full of enchanting modulations. Everything he said sounded suave and important, though he never said a word that was worth remembering. But in speaking he seemed to caress you with his tongue; he licked you all over, like a happy dog.

  Well, well, he said, grinning from ear to ear, and already half-cocked, I could see. So you went and did it? Well, come on in. Hello Mona, how are you? Congratulations! Marcelle isn't here yet. I hope she doesn't come. I don't feel so terribly vital today.

  He was still grinning as he sat down in a big throne chair near the easel.

  Ulric will certainly be sorry he missed this, he said. Will you have a little Scotch—or do you want gin?

  Gin.

  Well, tell me all about it. When did it happen-just now? Why didn't you let me know—I would have stood up for you.... He turned to Mona. You're not pregnant, are you?

  Jesus, let's talk about something else, said Mona. I swear I'll never get married again ... it's horrible.

  Listen, Ned, before you get drunk, tell me something ... how much money have you got on you?

  He fished out six cents. Oh, that's’ all right, he said, Marcelle will have something.

  If she comes.

  Oh, she'll come, don't worry. That's the hell of it. I don't know which is worse—to be broke or to have Marcelle on one's hands.

  I didn't think she was so bad, I said.

  No, she isn't, really, said Ned. She's a darned nice gal. But she's too affectionate. She clings. You see, I'm not made for conjugual bliss. I get weary of the same face, even if it's a Madonna. I'm fickle. And she's constant. She's bolstering me up all the time. I don't want to be bolstered up—not all the time.

  You don't know what you want, said Mona. You don't know when you're well off.

  I guess you're right, said Ned. Ulric's the same way. We're masochists, I guess. He grinned. He was a little ashamed of using a word like that so readily. It was an intellectual word and Ned had no use for things intellectual.

  The door-bell rang. It was Marcelle. I could hear her giving him a smacking kiss.<
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  You know Henry and Mona, don't you?

  Why sure I do, said Marcelle brightly. I caught you with your pants down ... you remember? That seems a long time ago.

  Listen, said Ned, what do you think they did? They got married ... yeah, just a little while ago ... in Hoboken.

  That's wonderful! said Marcelle. She went lip to Mona and kissed her. She kissed me too.

  Don't they look sad? said Ned.

  No, said Marcelle, I don't think they look sad. Why should they? Ned poured out a drink for her. As he handed it to her he said:

  Have you any money?

  Of course I have. Why? Do you want some?

  No, but they need a little money. They're broke.

  I'm so sorry, said Marcelle. Of course I have money. What can I give you—ten, twenty? Why certainly. And don't pay it back—it's a wedding present.

  Mona went over to her and took her hand. That's awfully good of you, Marcelle. Thank you.

  Then we'll take you to dinner, I said, trying to express my appreciation.

  No, you're not, said Marcelle. We're going to make dinner right here. Let's settle down and get comfy. I don't believe in going out to celebrate.... Really, I'm very happy. I like to see. people get married—and stay married. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I believe in love. I want to stay in love all my life.

  Marcelle, I said, where the devil do you hail from?

  From Utah. Why?

  I don't know, but I like you. You're refreshing. I like the way you hand the money out too.

  You're joshing me!

  No, I'm not. I'm serious. You're a good woman. You're too good for that bum over there. Why don't you marry him? Go on! It would scare the life out of him, but it might do him a lot of good.

  Do you hear that? she gurgled, turning to Ned. Haven't I been telling you that all along? You're lazy, that's what. You don't know what a prize I am.