Sexus (5 page)

I went on unabashed. “Do you think you might meet a woman some day who would change your whole life?”

“I've met one or two who've tried—not with entire success, as you can see,” he responded.

“Shit! Drop that stuff a moment, will you? I want to tell you something. . . . I want to tell you that I'm in love, madly in love. I know it sounds silly, but this is different—I've never been like this before. You wonder if she's a good piece of tail. Yes, magnificent. But I don't give a shit about that . . .”

“Oh, you don't? Well, that's something new.”

“Do you know what I did today?”

“You went to the Houston Street Burlesk maybe.”

“I went to the country. I was walking around like a madman . . .”

“What do you mean—has she given you the gate already?”

“No. She told me she loved me. . . . I know, it sounds childish, doesn't it?”

“I wouldn't say that exactly. You might be temporarily deranged, that's all. Everybody acts a bit queer when he falls in love. In your case it's apt to last longer. I wish I didn't have this damned job on my hands—I might listen more feelingly. You couldn't come back a little later, could you? Perhaps we could eat together, yes?”

“All right, I'll come back in an hour or so. Don't run out on me, you bastard, because I haven't a cent on me.”

I flew down the stairs and headed for the park. I was riled. It was silly to get all steamed up before Ulric. Always cool as a cucumber, that guy. How can you make another person understand what is really happening inside you? If I were to
break a leg he would drop everything. But if your heart is breaking with joy—well, it's a bit boring, don't you know. Tears are easier to put up with than joy. Joy is destructive: it makes others uncomfortable. “Weep and you weep alone”—what a lie that is! Weep and you will find a million crocodiles to weep with you. The world is forever weeping. The world is drenched in tears. Laughter, that's another thing. Laughter is momentary—it passes. But joy, joy is a kind of ecstatic bleeding, a disgraceful sort of supercontentment which overflows from every pore of your being. You can't make people joyous just by being joyous yourself. Joy has to be generated by oneself: it is or it isn't. Joy is founded on something too profound to be understood and communicated. To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts.

I couldn't remember ever seeing Ulric positively joyous. He could laugh readily enough, a good healthy laugh, too, but when he subsided he was always a bit below par. As for Stanley, the nearest semblance to mirth he could produce was a carbolic-acid grin. There wasn't a soul I knew who was really gay inside, or even resilient. My friend Kronski, who was now an intern, would act as though he were alarmed if he found me in an effervescent mood. He spoke of joy and sadness as if they were pathological conditions—opposite poles in the manic-depressive cycle.

When I got back to the studio I found it crowded with friends of his who had arrived unexpectedly. They were what Ulric called fine young blades from the South. They had come up from Virginia and North Carolina in their trim racing cars and they had brought with them a few jugs of peach brandy. I didn't know any of them and I felt a bit uncomfortable at first, but after a drink or two I limbered up and began talking freely. To my amazement they seemed not to understand what I was talking about. They excused their ignorance in a sly and embarrassing way by saying that they were just common countryfolk who knew more about horses than books. I wasn't aware of having mentioned any books, but that was their way, as I soon discovered, of telling me off. I was definitely an intellectual, say what I would. And they were very definitely country gentlemen, with boots and spurs.
The situation was getting rather tense, despite my efforts to talk their language. And then of a sudden it became ridiculous, owing to a stupid remark about Walt Whitman which one of them had chosen to address to me. I had been exalted for the better part of the day; the enforced promenade had sobered me up somewhat, but with the peach brandy flowing and the conversation all at loose ends I had gradually become exhilarated again. I was in a mood to combat these fine young blades from the South, more particularly because what I had on my chest to get off was being squelched by the senseless hilarity. So when the cultured young gent from Durham tried to cross swords with me about my favorite American writer I was at him hammer and tongs. As usual in such circumstances I overshot the mark.

The place was in an uproar. Apparently they had never seen anyone so earnest about an unimportant matter. Their laughter made me furious. I accused them of being a bunch of drunken sots, of being idle sons of bitches, ignorant, prejudiced, the product of good for nothing whoremongers, et cetera, et cetera. A tall, lanky chap, who later became a famous movie star, rose to his feet and threatened to crack me down. Ulric came to the rescue in his suave, silky way, the cups were filled to the brim and a truce declared. At that moment the bell rang and a good-looking young woman made her way in. She was presented to me as the wife of somebody or other whom the others all seemed to know and to be very solicitous about. I got Ulric to one side to find out what it was all about. “She's got a paralytic husband,” he confided. “Nurses him night and day. Drops in now and then to have a little drink—it's getting too much for her, I guess.”

I stood apart and sized her up. She looked like one of those oversexed females who, while playing the role of the martyr, manage somehow to get their needs satisfied. She had hardly gotten seated when two other females buzzed in, one of them quite decidedly a trollop, the other just somebody's wife, and rather rusty and shopworn at that. I was hungry as a bear and getting fantastically tight. With the arrival of the women I completely lost my combativeness. I thought of only two things—food and sex. I went to the can and absent-mindedly
left the door unlocked. I had backed up a bit because of a slow poisonous hard-on which the brandy had induced and, as I stood thus, pecker in hand and aiming at the bowl in a high curve, the door suddenly opened. It was Irene, the paralytic's wife. She made a smothered exclamation and started to close the door, but for some reason, perhaps because I seemed utterly calm and nonchalant, she stood at the doorsill and while I finished my piss, she talked to me as though nothing unusual were happening. “Quite a performance,” she said, as I shook the last few drops out. “Do you always back up that way?” I caught her by the hand and pulled her in, locking the door with the other hand. “No, please don't do that,” she begged, looking thoroughly frightened. “Just one moment,” I whispered, my cock brushing against her dress. I fastened my lips to her red mouth. “Please, please,” she begged, trying to squirm out of my embrace. “You'll disgrace me.” I knew I had to let her go. I worked fast and furiously. “I'll let you go,” I said. “Just one more kiss.” With that I backed her against the door and, without even bothering to lift her dress, I stabbed her again and again, shooting a heavy load all over her black silk front.

My absence wasn't even noticed. The Southern boys were clustered around the other two females, doing their best to get them cockeyed in short order. Ulric asked me slyly if I had seen anything of Irene.

“I think she's gone to the bathroom,” I said.

“How was it?”
he said. “Are you still in love?”

I gave him a wry smile.

“Why don't you bring your friend around some night,” he went on. “I can always find a pretext to get Irene over. We can take turns at giving her consolation,
what?”

“Listen,” I said, “lend me a dollar, will you? I've got to eat, I'm famished.”

Ulric always had a way of looking bewildered, nonplused, when you asked him for money. I had to take him short like that or he'd hedge out of it in that smooth, irresistible way he had of refusing. “Come on,” I said, taking him by the arm, “this is no time to fumble and stammer.” We went to the hall,
where he furtively slipped me a bill. Just as we were apapproaching the door Irene came out of the bathroom. “What, you're not going, are you?” she asked, coming up to me and slipping her arms in ours. “Yes, he's got to hurry off now,” said Ulric, “but he's promised to come back later.” And with this we put our arms around her and smothered her with kisses.

“When am I going to see you again?” said Irene. “I may not be here when you return. I'd like to have a talk with you.”

“Just a talk?” said Ulric.

“Well, you know . . .” she said, finishing it off with a lascivious laugh.

The laugh got me in the scrotum. I got hold of her again and pushing her into a corner I put my hand on her cunt, which was blazing, and slid my tongue down her throat.

“Why do you run away now?” she murmured. “Why don't you stay?”

Ulric stepped in to get his share. “Don't worry about
him,”
he said, fastening on her like a leech. “That bird doesn't need any consolation. He's got more than he can handle.”

As I slipped out I caught a last imploring signal from Irene, her back bent almost in half, her dress up above her knees, Ulric's hand creeping up her leg and fastening on her warm cunt. “Whew! what a bitch!” I mumbled, as I slid down the stairs. I was faint with hunger. I wanted a steak smothered in onions and a schooner of beer.

I ate in the back of a saloon on Sixth Avenue, not far from Ulric's place. I had what I wanted and was still ten cents to the good. I felt genial and expansive, in a mood to accept anything. My mood must have been written on my face because, as I stood a moment at the doorway to take in the scene, a man airing a dog saluted me in friendly fashion. I thought he had mistaken me for someone else, something which frequently happens to me, but no, he was just friendlily inclined, perhaps in the same glowing mood as myself. We exchanged a few words and presently I was walking along with him and the dog. He said he lived nearby and that if I cared to join him in a friendly drink I might accompany him
to his apartment. The few words we had exchanged convinced me that he was a sensitive, cultured gentleman of the old school. As a matter of fact he intimated, almost in the next breath, that he had just returned from Europe, where he had been living for a number of years. As we reached his apartment he was relating a story about an affair he had had with a countess in Florence. He seemed to take it for granted that I knew Europe. He treated me as if I were an artist.

The apartment was rather sumptuous. He immediately brought out a beautiful box of excellent Havana cigars and asked me what I preferred to drink. I took a whisky and settled down in a luxurious armchair. I had the feeling that this man would be putting money in my hand before long. He listened to me as though he believed every word I uttered. Suddenly he ventured to ask if I were not a writer?
Why?
Well, from the way I looked around, the way I stood, the expression about the mouth—little things, undefinable, a general impression of sensitivity and curiosity.

“And you?”
I asked. “What do
you
do?”

He made a deprecatory gesture, as though to say, I'm nothing any more. “I
was
a painter once, a poor one, too. I don't do anything now. I try to enjoy myself.”

That set me off. The words just fell out of me, like hot shot. I told him where I stood, how messy things were, how things were happening nevertheless, what grand hopes I had, what a life lay before me if I could only take hold of it, squeeze it, marshal it, conquer it. I lied a bit. It was impossible to admit to him, this stranger who had come to my rescue out of a clear sky, that I was a total failure.

What had I written thus far?

Why, several books, some poems, a batch of short stories. I rattled on at top speed so as not to be caught in trivial questions of fact. About the new book I had begun—that was to be something magnificent. There were over forty characters in it. I had made a great chart on my wall, a sort of map of the book—he must see it some time. Did he remember Kirillov, the character in one of Dostoevski's works, who had shot or hanged himself because he was too happy? That was me all over. I was going to shoot everybody off—
out of sheer happiness. . . . Today for example, if he could only have seen me a few hours ago. Completely mad. Rolling in the grass by the side of a brook; chewing mouthfuls of grass; scratching myself like a dog; yelling at the top of my lungs; doing handsprings; even got down on my knees and prayed, not to ask for something, but to give thanks, thanks for being alive, for being able to breathe the air. . . .
Wasn't it wonderful just to breathe?

I went on to relate little episodes out of my telegraphic life: the crooks I had to deal with, the pathological liars, the perverts, the shell-shocked bums sitting in the lodging houses, the slimy, hypocritical charity workers, the diseases of the poor, the runaway boys who disappear from the face of the earth, the whores who try to muscle in and work the office buildings, the cracked pots, the epileptics, the orphans, the reformatory lads, the ex-convicts, the nymphomaniacs.

His mouth hung open like a hinge, his eyes were popping out of his head; he looked for all the world like a good-natured toad that had been hit with a rock.
Have another drink?

Sure! What was I saying? Oh yes . . . in the middle of the book I would explode. Why not? There were plenty of writers who could drag a thing out to the end without letting go of the reins; what we needed was a man, like myself for instance, who didn't give a fuck what happened. Dostoevski hadn't gone quite far enough. I was for straight gibberish. One should go cuckoo! People have had enough of plot and character. Plot and character don't make life. Life isn't in the upper storey: life is here now, any time you say the word, any time you let rip. Life is four hundred and forty horsepower in a two-cylinder engine . . .