Henry Miller - NEXUS

Fortunately, my sister was busy reeling off the names of news commentators, broadcasters, crooners, musical comedy stars, neighbors and relatives, the whole roll call connected and interconnected with a spate of catastrophes which invariably caused her to weep, drool, dribble, sniffle and snuffle.

She's doing very well, our dear Stasia, I thought to myself. Excellent table manners too. For how long?

Little by little, of course, the heavy food plus the good Moselle began to tell on them. They had had little sleep, the two of them. Mona was already struggling to suppress the yawns which were rising like waves.

Said the old man, aware of the situation: I suppose you got to bed late?

Not so very, said I brightly. We never get to bed before midnight, you know.

I suppose you write at night, said my mother.

I jumped. Usually she never made the slightest reference to my scribbling, unless it was accompanied by a reproof or a sign of disgust.

Yes, I said, that's when I do my work. It's quiet at night. I can think better.

And during the day?

I was going to say Work, of course! but realized immediately that to mention a job would only complicate matters. So I said: I generally go to the library ... research work.

Now for Stasia. What did she do?

To my utter amazement, my father blurted out: She's an artist, any one can see that!

Oh? said my mother, as if the very sound of the word frightened her. And does it pay?

Stasia smiled indulgently. Art was never rewarding ... in the beginning ... she explained most graciously. Adding that fortunately her guardians sent her little sums from time to time.

I suppose you have a studio? fired the old man.

Yes, she said. I have a typical garret over in the Village.

Here Mona took over, to my distress, and in her usual way began elaborating. I shut her off as best I could because the old man, who was swallowing it hook, line and sinker, intimated that he would look Stasia up—in her studio—some day. He liked to see artists at work, he said.

I soon diverted the conversation to Homer Winslow, Bougereau, Ryder and Sisley. (His favorites) Stasia lifted her eyebrows at the mention of these incongruous names. She looked even more astonished when the old man started reeling off the names of famous American painters whose works, as he explained, used to hang in the tailor shop. (That is, before his predecessor sold out.) For Stasia's sake, since the game was on, I reminded him of Ruskin ... of The Stones of Venice, the only book he had ever read. Then I got him to reminiscing about P. T. Barnum, Jenny Lind and other celebrities of his day.

During a lull Lorette remarked that an operetta would be given over the radio at three-thirty ... would we like to hear it?

But it was now time for the plum pudding to be served—with that delicious hard sauce—and Lorette forgot, momentarily, about the operetta.

The mention of three-thirty reminded me that we still had a long session to put in. I wondered how on earth we would manage to keep the conversation going until it was time to go. And when would it be possible to take leave without seeming to rush off? Already my scalp was itching.

Musing thus, I became more and more aware that Mona and Stasia were heavy with sleep. It was obvious that they could scarcely keep their eyes open. What subject could I bring up which would excite them without at the same time causing them to lose their heads? Something trivial, yet not too trivial. (Wake up, you louts!) Something, perhaps, about the ancient Egyptians? Why them? To save my life, I couldn't think of anything better. Try! Try!

Suddenly I realized that all was silence. Even Lorette had clammed up. How long had this been going on? Think fast! Anything to break the deadlock. What, Rameses again? Fuck Rameses! Think quick, idiot! Think! Anything!

Did I ever tell you...? I began.

Excuse me, said Mona, rising heavily and knocking the chair over as she did so, but do you mind if I were to lie down for just a few minutes? I've got a splitting headache.

The couch was only a foot or two away. Without further ado she sank on to it and closed her eyes.

(For Christ's sake, don't snore immediately!)

She must be worn out, said my father. He looked at Stasia. Why don't you take a little snooze too? It will do you good.

She needed no coaxing, Stasia. In a jiffy she stretched herself out beside the lifeless Mona.

Get a blanket, said my mother to Lorette. That thin one upstairs in the closet.

The couch was a bit too narrow to hold the two of them comfortably. They turned and twisted, groaned, giggled, yawned disgracefully. Suddenly, bango! the springs gave way and on to the floor tumbled Stasia. To Mona it was excruciatingly funny. She laughed and laughed. Much too loudly to suit me. But then, how could she know that this precious couch which had held up nigh on to fifty years might have lasted another ten or twenty years with proper care? In our house one didn't laugh callously over such a mishap.

Meanwhile my mother, stiff as she was, had got down on hands and knees to see how and where the couch had given way. (The sofa, they called it.) Stasia lay where she had fallen, as if waiting for instructions. My mother moved round and about her much as a beaver might work about a fallen tree. Lorette now appeared with the blanket. She watched the performance as if stupefied. (Nothing like this should ever have happened.) The old man, on the other hand, never any good at fixing anything, had gone to the back yard in search of bricks. Where's the hammer? my mother was saying. The sight of my father with an armful of bricks roused her scorn. She was going to fix it properly—and immediately.

Later, said the old man. They want to snooze now. With that he got down on all fours and shoved the bricks under the sagging springs.

Stasia now raised herself from the floor, just sufficiently to slide back on to the couch, and turned her face to the wall. They lay spoon fashion, peaceful as exhausted chipmunks. I took my seat at the table and watched the ritual of clearing the table. I had witnessed it a thousand times, and the manner of doing it never varied. In the kitchen it was the same. First things first...

What cunning bitches! I thought to myself. It was they who should be clearing the table and washing the dishes. A headache! As simple as that. Now I would have to face the music alone. Better that way, maybe, since I knew all the moves. Now it wouldn't matter what came up for discussion—dead cats, last year's cockroaches, Mrs. Schwabenhof's ulcers, last Sunday's sermon, carpet sweepers, Weber and Fields or the lay of the last minstrel. I would keep my eyes open no matter if it lasted till midnight. (How long would they sleep, the sots?) If they felt rested on waking perhaps they wouldn't mind too much how long we stayed. I knew we would have to have a bite before going. One couldn't sneak away at five or six o'clock. Not on Christmas day. Nor could we get away without gathering around the tree and singing that ghastly song—O Tannenbaum! And that was sure to be followed by a complete catalogue of all the trees we ever had and how they compared with one another, of how eager I was, when a boy, to see what gifts were piled up for me beneath the Christmas tree. (Never any mention of Lorette as a girl.) What a wonderful boy I was! Such a reader, such a good piano player! And the bikes I had and the roller skates. And the air rifle. (No mention of my revolver.) Was it still in the drawer where the knives and forks were kept? That was a really bad moment she gave us, my mother, the night she went for the revolver. Fortunately there wasn't a cartridge in the barrel. She probably knew as much. Just the same...

No, nothing had changed. At the age of twelve the clock had stopped. No matter what any one whispered in their ears, I was always that darling little boy who would one day grow up to be a full-fledged merchant tailor. All that nonsense about writing ... I'd get over it sooner or later. And this bizarre new wife ... she'd fade away too, in time. Eventually I would come to my senses. Every one does, sooner or later. They weren't worried that, like dear old Uncle Paul, I would do myself in. I wasn't the sort. Besides, I had a head on me. Sound at bottom, so to say. Wild and wayward, nothing more. Read too much ... had too many worthless friends. They would take care not to mention the name but soon, I knew, would come the question, always furtively, always in smothered tones, eyes right, eyes left—And how is the little one? Meaning my daughter. And I who hadn't the slightest idea, who wasn't even sure that she was still alive, would reply in a calm, matter of fact way: Oh, she's fine, yes. Yes? my mother would say, a And have you heard from them? Them was by way of including my ex-wife. Indirectly, I would reply. Stanley tells me about them now and then. And how is he, Stanley? Just fine ... How I wish I might talk to them about Johnny Paul. But that they would think strange, very strange. Why, I hadn't seen Johnny Paul since I vas seven or eight. True enough. But what they never suspected, particularly you, my dear mother, was that all these years I had kept his memory alive. Yes, as the years roll on, Johnny Paul stands out brighter and brighter. Sometimes, and this is beyond all your imagining, sometimes I think of him as a little god. One of the very few I have ever known. You don't remember, I suppose, that Johnny Paul had the softest, gentlest voice a man could have? You don't know that, though I was only a tike at the time, I saw through his eyes what no one else ever revealed to me? He was just the coal man's son to you: an immigrant boy, a dirty little Italian who didn't speak English too well but who tipped his hat politely whenever you passed. How could you possibly dream that such a specimen should be as a god to your darling son? Did you ever know anything that passed through the mind of your wayward son? You approved neither of the books he read, nor the companions he chose, nor the girls he fell in love with, nor the games he played, nor the things he wanted to be. You always knew better, didn't you? But you didn't press down too hard. Your way was to pretend not to hear, not to see. I would get over all this foolishness in due time. But I didn't! I got worse each year. So you pretended that at twelve the clock had stopped. You simply couldn't recognize your son for what he was. You chose the me which suited you. The twelve year old. After that the deluge...