Sexus (67 page)

“Don't worry about what I think,” he was saying in that rich pastoral voice. “I only wish Ulric were here . . . he would appreciate it even more than I.”

“For Christ's sake, don't say that, Ned! One doesn't want appreciation . . . one wants a response. To tell you the truth, I don't know what I want of you, or of anybody, for that matter. I want more than I get, that's all I know. I want you to step out of your skin. I want everybody to strip down, not just to the flesh, but the soul. Sometimes I get so hungry, so rapacious, that I could eat people up. I can't wait for them to tell me things . . . how they feel . . . what they want . . . and so on. I want to chew them alive . . . find out for myself . . . quick, all at once. Listen . . .”

I picked up a drawing of Ulric's that was lying on his table.
“See this? Now supposing I ate it?” I began to chew the paper.

“Jesus, Henry, don't do that! He's been working on that for the last three days. That's a job.” He tore the drawing from my hand.

“All right,” I said. “Give me something else then. Give me a coat. . . anything. Here, give me your hand!” I made a grab for his hand and raised it to my mouth. He pulled it away violently.

“You're going nuts,” he said. “Listen, hold your horses. The girls will be back soon . . . then you can have real food.”

“I'll eat anything,” I said. “I'm not hungry, I'm exalted. I just want to show you how I feel.
Don't you ever get this way?”

“I should say not!” he said, baring a fang. “Christ, if it got that bad I'd go to a doctor. I'd think I had the d.t.'s, or something. You'd better put that glass down . . . that gin isn't good for you.”

“You think it's the gin? All right, I'll throw the glass away.” I went to the window and threw it into the courtyard. “There! Now give me a glass of water. Bring a
pitcher
of water in. I'll show you. . . . You never saw anybody get drunk on water, eh? Well, watch me!

“Now before I get drunk on the water,” I continued, following him into the bathroom, “I want you to observe the difference between exaltation and intoxication. The girls will be coming back soon. By that time I'll be drunk. You watch. See what happens.”

“You bet I will,” he said. “If I could learn to get drunk on water it would save me a lot of headaches. Here, take a glass now. I'll get the pitcher.”

I took the glass and swallowed it down in one gulp. When he returned I swallowed another in the same fashion. He looked on as if I were a circus freak.

“After five or six of these you'll begin to notice the effect,” I said.

“Are you sure you don't want a wee drop of gin in it? I won't accuse you of cheating. Water is so damned flat and tasteless.”

“Water is the elixir of life, my dear Ned. If I were running the world I'd give the creative people a bread and water diet. The dullards I'd give all the food and drink they craved. I'd poison them off by satisfying their desires. Food is poison to the spirit. Food doesn't satisfy hunger, nor drink thirst. Food, sexual or otherwise, is only satisfying to the appetites. Hunger is something else. Nobody can satisfy hunger. Hunger is the soul's barometer. Ecstasy is the norm. Serenity is the freedom from weather conditions—the permanent climate of the stratosphere. That's where we're all headed . . . towards the stratosphere. I'm already a bit drunk, do you see? Because, when you can think of serenity it means that you've passed the zenith of exaltation. At one minute past twelve noon night begins, say the Chinese. But at zenith and nadir you stand stock-still for a moment or two. At the two poles God gives you the chance to leap clear of the clockwork. At the nadir, which is physical intoxication, you have the privilege of going mad—or of commiting suicide. At zenith, which is a state of ecstasy, you can pass fulfilled into serenity and bliss. It's now about ten minutes after twelve on the spiritual clock. Night has fallen. I am no longer hungry, I have only an insane desire to be happy. That means I want to share my intoxication with you and everybody. That's maudlin. When I finish the pitcher of water I'll begin to believe that everybody is as good as everybody else: I'll lose all sense of values. That's the only way we have of knowing how to be happy—to believe that we are identical. It's the delusion of the poor in spirit. It's like Purgatory equipped with electric fans and streamline furniture. It's the caricature of joyousness. Joy means unity; happiness means plurality.”

“Do you mind if I take a leak?” said Ned. “I think you're getting somewhere now. I feel mildly pleasurable.”

“That's reflected happiness. You're living on the moon. As soon as I stop shining you'll become extinct.”

“You said it, Henry. Jesus, having you around is like getting a shot in the arm.”

The pitcher was almost empty. “Fill it up again,” I said. “I'm lucid but I'm not drunk yet. I wish the girls would come back. I need an incentive. I hope they didn't get run over.”

“Do you sing when you get drunk?” asked Ned.

“Do I? Do you want to hear me?” I began the Prologue to
Pagliacci.

In the midst of it the girls returned, loaded with packages. I was still singing.

“You must be high,” said Marcelle, glancing from one to the other of us.

“He's getting drunk,” said Ned.
“On water.”

“On water?”
they echoed.

“Yes, on water. It's the opposite of ecstasy, he says.”

“I don't get you,” said Marcelle. “Let me smell your breath.”

“Don't smell mine . . . smell his. I'm satisfied to get drunk on liquor. Two minutes after twelve it's nighttime, says Henry. Happiness is only an air-conditioned form of Purgatory . . . isn't that it, Henry?”

“Listen,” said Marcelle, “Henry's not drunk, you're the one who's drunk.”

“Joy is unity; happiness is always in the majority, or something like that. You should have been here a little earlier. He wanted to eat my hand. When I refused to oblige him he asked for a coat. Come on in here . . . I'll show you what he did to Ulric's drawing.”

They looked at the drawing, one corner of which had been chewed to a frazzle.

“That's hunger for you,” Ned explained. “He doesn't mean ordinary hunger—he means spiritual hunger. The goal is the stratosphere where the climate is always serene. Isn't that it, Henry?”

“That's it,” I said, with a grave smile. “Now Ned, tell Mona what you were telling me a moment ago . . .” I gave him a hypnotic blink and raised another glass to my lips.

“I don't think you'd better let him drink all that water,” said Ned, appealing to Mona. “He's finished one pitcher already. I'm afraid he'll get dropsy—or hydrocephalus.”

Mona gave me a searching look. What's the meaning of this act?—it said.

I put my hand on her arm, lightly, as if I were laying a
divining rod on it. “He has something to say to you. Listen quietly. It will make you feel good.”

All eyes were focused on Ned. He blushed and stammered.

“What is this?” said Marcelle. “What did he say that was so wonderful?”

“I guess I'll have to say it for him,” I said. I took Mona's two hands in mine and looked into her eyes. “This is what he said, Mona. . . . ‘I never knew that one human being could transform another human being as Mona has transformed you. Some people get religion; you got love. You're the luckiest man in the world.' “

Mona: “Did you really say that, Ned?”

Marcelle: “How is it I haven't transformed
you?”

Ned began to sputter.

“I guess he needs another drink,” said Marcelle.

“No, drink only satisfies the lower appetites,” said Ned. “I'm searching for the elixir of life, which is water, according to Henry.”

“I'll give you your elixir later,” Marcelle rejoined. “How about some cold chicken now?”

“Have you any bones?” I asked.

Marcelle looked perplexed.

“I want to eat them,” I said. “Bones give phosphorus and iodine. Mona always feeds me bones when I'm exalted. You see, when I'm effervescent I give off vital energy. You don't need bones—you need cosmic juices. You've worn your celestial envelope too thin. You're radiating from the sexual sphere.”

“What does that mean in plain English?”

“It means that you feed on seed instead of ambrosia. Your spiritual hormones are impoverished. You love Apis the bull instead of Krishna the charioteer. You'll find your Paradise, but it will be on the lower level. Then the only escape is insanity.”

“It's as clear as mud,” said Marcelle.

“Don't get caught in the clockwork, that's what he means,” Ned volunteered.

“What clockwork? What the hell are you talking about, you two?”

“Don't you understand, Marcelle?” I said. “What can love bring you that you haven't got already?”

“I haven't got anything, except a lot of responsibilities,” said Marcelle. “
He
gets it all.”

“Precisely, and that's why it feels so good.”

“I didn't say that! . . . Listen, what are you talking about? Are you sure you're feeling all right?”

“I'm talking about your soul,” I said. “You've been starving your soul. You need cosmic juices, as I said before.”

“Yeah, and where do you buy 'em?”

“You don't buy them . . . you pray for them. Didn't you ever hear of the manna that fell from the sky? Ask for manna tonight: it will give tone to your astral ligaments . . .”

“I don't know anything about this astral stuff, but I do know something about ass,” said Marcelle. “If you ask me, I think you're giving me the
double-entendre.
Why don't you go to the bathroom for a little while and play with yourself? Marriage has a queer effect on you.”

“You see, Henry,” Ned broke in, “that's how they bring things down to earth. She's always worrying about her nookie, aren't you, dear?” He stroked her under the chin. “I was thinking,” he continued, “that maybe we ought to go to the burlesque tonight. That would be a novel way to celebrate the occasion, don't you think? You know, it gives you
i
-deas.”

Marcelle looked at Mona. It was obvious they didn't think it was such a hot idea.

“Let's eat first,” I suggested. “Bring that coat in, or a pillow . . . I might want something on the side. Talking about ass,” I said, “did you ever take a good bite . . . you know,
a real bite?
Take Marcelle, for instance . . . that's what I call a tempting piece of ass.”

Marcelle began to titter. She put her hands behind her instinctively.

“Don't worry, I'm not biting into you yet. There's chicken first and other things. But honest, sometimes one does feel like tearing a chunk out, what! A pair of teats, that's different. I never could bite into a woman's teats—
a real bite
, I mean. Always afraid the milk will squirt into my face. And
all those veins . . . Jesus, it's so bloody. But a beautiful ass . . . somehow you don't think of blood in a woman's ass. It's just pure white meat. There's another delicacy just below the crotch, on the inside. That's even tenderer than a piece of pure ass. I don't know, maybe I'm exaggerating. Anyway, I'm hungry. . . . Wait till I drain some of this piss out of me. It's given me a hard-on, and I can't eat with a hard-on. Save some of the brown meat for me, with the skin. I love skin. Make a nice cunt sandwich, and slap a little cold gravy over it. Jesus, my mouth's watering . . .”

“Feel better now?” said Ned, when I had returned from the bathroom.

“I'm famished. What's that lovely puke over there—in the big bowl?”

“That's turtle shit with rotten eggs and a bit of menstrual sauce,” said Ned. “Does that whet your appetite?”

“I wish you'd change the subject,” said Marcelle. “I'm not overly delicate but puke is one thing I don't like to think about when I'm eating. If you have to talk dirt I'd rather you talked sex.”

“What do you mean,” said Ned, “is sex dirt? How about that, Henry,
is sex dirt?”

“Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation,” I answered. “The other eight are unimportant. If we were all angels we wouldn't have any sex—we'd have wings. An airplane has no sex; neither has God. Sex provides for reproduction and reproduction leads to failure. The sexiest people in the world, so they say, are the insane. They live in Paradise, but they've lost their innocence.”

“For an intelligent person you do talk a lot of nonsense,” said Marcelle. “Why don't you talk about things we all understand? Why do you give us all this shit about angels and God and the booby hatch? If you were drunk it would be different, but you're not drunk . . . you're not even pretending to be drunk . . . you're insolent and arrogant. You're showing off.”

“Good, Marcelle, very good! Do you want to hear the truth? I'm bored. I'm fed up. I came here to get a meal and borrow some money. Yeah, let's talk about simple, ordinary
things. How was your last operation? Do you like white meat or dark? Let's talk about anything that will prevent us from thinking or feeling. Sure, it was damned nice of you to give us twenty dollars right off the bat like that. Mighty white of you. But I get itchy when I listen to you talk. I want to hear somebody say something . . . something original. I know you've got a good heart, that you never do anyone harm. And I suppose you mind your own business too. But that doesn't interest me. I'm sick of good, kind, generous people. I want a show of character and temperament. Jesus, I can't even get drunk—in
this
atmosphere. I feel like the Wandering Jew. I'd like to set the house on fire, or something. Maybe if you'd pull your drawers off and dip them in the coffee that would help. Or take a frankfurter and diddle yourself. . . . Let's be simple, you say. Good.
Can you let a loud fart?
Listen, once I had ordinary brains, ordinary dreams, ordinary desires. I nearly went nuts. I loathe the ordinary. Makes me constipated.
Death
is ordinary—it's what happens to everybody. I refuse to die. I've made up my mind that I'm going to live forever. Death is easy: it's like the booby hatch, only you can't masturbate any more. You like your nookie, Ned says. Sure, so does everyone. And what then? In ten years your ass will be crinkled and your boobs will be hanging down like empty douche bags. Ten years . . . twenty years . . . what difference? You had a few good fucks and then you dried up. So what? The moment you stop having a good time you grow melancholy. You don't regulate your life—you let your cunt do it for you. You're at the mercy of a stiff prick. . . .”