Nexus. Генри Миллер
deeper and deeper into the pit. Hysteria became the norm. The snow never melted.
While hatching the most diabolical schemes to drive Stasia really mad, and thus do away with her for good, I also dreamed up the most asinine plan of campaign for a second courtship. In every shop window I passed I saw gifts which I wanted to buy her. Women adore gifts, especially costly ones. They also love little nothings, dependent on their moods. Between a pair of antique earrings, very expensive, and a large black candle, I could spend the whole livelong day debating which to get her. Never would I admit to myself that the expensive object was out of reach. No, were I able to convince myself that the earrings would please her more, I could also convince myself that I could find the way to purchase them. I could convince myself of this, I say, because in the bottom of my heart I knew I would never decide on either. It was a pastime. True, I might better have passed the time debating higher issues, whether, for example, the soul was corruptible or incorruptible, but to the mind-machine one problem is as good as another. In this same spirit I could work up the urge to walk five or ten miles in order to borrow a dollar, and feel just as triumphant if I succeeded in scrounging a dime or even a nickel. What I might have hoped to do with a dollar was unimportant: it was the effort I was still capable of making which counted. It meant, in my deteriorated view of things, that I still had one foot in the world.
Yes, it was truly important to remind myself of such things occasionally and not carry on like the Akond of Swot. It was also good to give them a jolt once in a while, to say when they came home at three A.M. empty-handed: “Don’t let it bother you, I’ll go buy myself a sandwich.” Sometimes, to be sure, I ate only an imaginary sandwich. But it did me good to let them think that I was not altogether without resources. Once or twice I actually convinced them that I had eaten a steak. I did it to rile them, of course. (What business had I to eat a steak when they had passed hours away sitting in a cafeteria waiting for someone to offer them a bite?)
Occasionally I would greet them thus: “So you did manage to get something to eat?”
The question always seemed to disconcert them.
“I thought you were starving,” I would say.
Whereupon they would inform me that they were not interested in starving. There was no reason for me to starve either, they were sure to add. I did it only to torment them.
If they were in a jovial mood they would enlarge on the subject. What new devilry was I planning? Had I seen Kronski lately? And then the smoke-screen talk would begin—about their new-found friends, the dives they had discovered, the side trips to Harlem, the studio Stasia was going to rent, and so on and so forth. Oh yes, and they had forgotten to tell me about Barley, Stasia’s poet friend, whom they had run across the other night. He was going to drop in some afternoon. Wanted to meet me.
One evening Stasia took to reminiscing. Truthful reminiscences, as far as I could gather. About the trees she used to rub herself against in the moonlight, about the perverted millionaire who fell in love with her because of her hairy legs, about the Russian girl who tried to make love to her but whom she repulsed because she was too crude. Besides, she was then having an affair with a married woman and, to throw dust in the husband’s eyes, she used to let him fuck her . . . not that she enjoyed it but because the wife, whom she loved, thought it was the thing to do.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all these things,” she said. “Unless. . . .”
Suddenly she remembered why. It was because of Barley. Barley was an odd sort. What the attraction was between them she couldn’t understand. He was always pretending he wanted to lay her, but nothing ever happened. Anyhow, he was a very good poet, that she was sure of. Now and then, she said, she would compose a poem in his presence. Then she supplied a curious commentary: “I could go on writing while he masturbated me.”
Titters.
“What do you think of that?”
“Sounds like a page out of Krafft-Ebing.” I volunteered.
A long discussion now ensued regarding the relative merits of Krafft-Ebing, Freud, Forel, Stekel, Weininger et alia, ending with Stasia’s remark that they were all old hat.
“You know what I’m going to do for you?” she exclaimed. “I’m going to let your friend Kronski examine me.”
“How do you mean—examine you?”
“Explore my anatomy.”
“I thought you meant your head.”
“He can do that too,” she said, cool as a cucumber.
“And if he finds nothing wrong with you, you’re just polymorph perverse, is that it?”
The expression, borrowed from Freud, tickled them no end. Stasia liked it so much, indeed, that she swore she would write a poem by that title.
True to her word, Kronski was summoned to come and make due examination. He arrived in good humor, rubbing his hands and cracking his knuckles.
“What’s it this time, Mister Miller? Any vaseline handy? A tight job, if I know my business. Not a bad idea, though. At least we’ll know if she’s a hermaphrodite or not. Maybe we’ll discover a rudimentary tail. . . .”
Stasia had already removed her blouse and was displaying her lovely coral-tipped breasts.
“Nothing wrong with them,” said Kronski, cupping them. “Now off with your pants!”
At this she balked. “Not here!” she cried.
“Wherever you like,” said Kronski. “How about the toilet?”
“Why don’t you conduct your examination in her room?” said Mona. “This isn’t an exhibition performance.”
“Oh no?” said Kronski, giving them a dirty leer. “I thought that was the idea.”
He went to the next room to fetch his black bag.
“To make it more official I brought my instruments along.”
“You’re not going to hurt her?” cried Mona.
“Not unless she resists,” he replied. “Did you find the vaseline? If you haven’t any, olive oil will do . . . or butter.”
Stasia made a wry face. “Is all that necessary?” she demanded.
“It’s up to you,” said Kronski. “Depends on how touchy you are. If you lie still and behave yourself there’ll be no difficulty. If it feels good I may stick something else in.”
“Oh no you don’t!” cried Mona.
“What’s the matter, are you jealous?”
“We invited you here as a doctor. This isn’t a bordel.”
“You’d be better off if were a fancy house,” said Kronski sneeringly. “She would, at least . . . Come on, let’s get it over with!”
With this he took Stasia by the hand and led her into the little room next to the toilet. Mona wanted to go along, to be certain that no harm came to Stasia. But Kronski wouldn’t hear of it.
“This is a professional visit,” he said. He rubbed his hands gleefully. “As for you, Mister Miller,” and he gave me a knowing look, “if I were you I’d take a little walk.”
“No, stay!” begged Mona. “I don’t trust him.”
So we remained, Mona and I, pacing up and down the long room with never a word exchanged.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Suddenly from the adjoining room there came a piercing scream. “Help! Help! He’s raping me!”
We burst into the room. Sure enough, there was Kronski with his pants down, his face red as a beet. Trying to mount her. Like a tigress, Mona pounced on him and pulled him off the bed. Then Stasia bounded out of bed and threw herself on him, straddling him. With all her might she clawed and pummeled him. The poor devil was so