Henry Miller - NEXUS

You don't, understand. It's different this time. This is love. Let me tell you about her ... He paused a full moment. Unless you're too busy right now. He directed his gaze at the work table, observed the blank sheet in the machine, then added: What is it this time—a novel? Or a philosophical treatise?

It's nothing, I said. Nothing important.

Sounds strange, he said. Once upon a time everything you did was important, very important. Come on, what are you holding back for? I know I disturbed you, but that's no reason to clam up on me.

If you really want to know, I'm working on a novel.

A novel? Jesus, Hen, don't try that ... you'll never write a novel.

Why? What makes you so sure? Because I know you, that's why. You haven't any feeling for plot.

Does a novel always have to have a plot? Look, he countered, I don't want to gum up the works, but...

But what?

Why don't you stick to your guns? You can write anything, but not a novel.

What makes you think I can write at all?

He hung his head, as if thinking up an answer.

You never thought much of me as a writer, said I. Nobody does.

You're a writer all right, he said. Maybe you haven't produced anything worth looking at yet, but you've got time. The trouble with you is you're obstinate.

Obstinate?

Obstinate, yeah! Stubborn, mule-headed. You want to enter by the front door. You want to be different but you don't want to pay the price. Look, why couldn't you take a job as a reporter, work your way up, become a correspondent, then tackle the great work? Answer that!

Because it's a waste of time, that's why.

Other men have done it. Bigger men than you, some of them. What about Bernard Shaw?

That was O.K. for him, I replied. I have my own way.

Silence for a few moments. I reminded him of an evening in his office long ago, an evening when he had flung a new review at me and told me to read a story by John Dos Passes, then a young writer.

You know what you told me then? You said: ‘Hen, why don't you try your hand at it? You can write as good as him any day. Read it and see!'

I said that?

Yes. Don't remember, eh? Well, those words you dropped so carelessly that night stuck in my crop. Whether I'll ever be as good as John Dos Passes is neither here nor there. What's important is that once you seemed to think I could write.

Have I ever said any different, Hen?

No, but you act different. You act as if you were going along with me in some crazy escapade. As if it were all hopeless. You want me to do like every one else, do it their way, repeat their errors.

Jesus, but you're sensitive I Go on, write your bloody novel! Write your fool head off, if you like! I was just trying to give you a little friendly advice ... Anyway, that's not what I came for, to talk writing. I'm in a jam, I need help. And you're the one who's going to help me.

How?

I don't know. But let me tell you a bit first, then you'll understand better. You can spare a half-hour, can't you?

I guess so.

Well then, it's like this ... You remember that joint we used to go to in the Village Saturday afternoons? The place George always haunted? It was about two months ago, I guess, when I dropped in to look things over. It hadn't changed much ... still the same sort of gals hanging out there. But I was bored. I had a couple of drinks all by myself—nobody gave me a tumble, by the way—I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself, getting old like and all that, when suddenly I spied a girl two tables away, alone like myself.

A raving beauty, I suppose?

No, Hen. No, I wouldn't say that. But different. Anyway, I caught her eye, asked her for a dance, and when the dance was over she came and sat with me. We didn't dance again. Just sat and talked. Until closing time. I wanted to take her home but she refused to let me. I asked for her phone number and she refused that too. ‘Maybe I'll see you here next Saturday?’ I said. ‘Maybe,’ she replied. And that was that ... You haven't got a drink around here, have you?

Sure I have. I went to the closet and got out a bottle.

What's this? he said, grabbing the bottle of Vermouth.

That's a hair tonic, I said. I suppose you want Scotch?

If you have it, yes. If not, I've got some in my car.

I got out a bottle of Scotch and poured him a stiff drink.

How about yourself?

Never touch it. Besides, it's too early in the day.

That's right. You've got to write that novel, don't you?

Just as soon as you leave, I said.

I'll make it brief, Hen. I know you're bored. But I don't give a damn. You've got to hear me out ... Where was I now? Yeah, the dance hall. Well, next Saturday I was back waiting for her, but no sign of her. I sat there the whole afternoon. Didn't have a single dance. No Guelda.

What? Guelda? Is that her name?

Yeah, what's wrong?

A funny name, that's all. What is she ... what nationality?

Scotch-Irish, I imagine. What difference does that make?

None, none at all. Just curious.

She's no Gypsy, if that's what's on your mind. But there's something about her that gets me. I can't stop thinking about her. I'm in love, that's what. And I don't think I've ever been in love before. Not this way, certainly.

It sure is funny to hear you say that.

! know it, Hen.. It's more than funny. It's tragic.

I burst out laughing.

Yes, tragic, he repeated. For the first time in my life I've met some one who doesn't give a shit about me.

How do you know? I said. Did you ever meet her again?

Meet her again? Man, I've been dogging her steps ever since that day. Sure, I've seen her again. I tracked her home one night. She was getting off a bus at Borough Hall. Didn't see me, of course. Next day I rang her up. She was furious. What did I mean telephoning her? How did I get her number? And so on. Well, a few weeks later she was at the dance hall again. This time I had to literally get down on my knees to wangle a dance out of her. She told me not to bother her, that I didn't interest her, that I was uncouth ... oh, all sorts of things. I couldn't get her to sit with me either. A few days later I sent her a bouquet of roses. No results. I tried phoning her again, but as soon as she heard my voice she hung up.

She's probably mad about you, I said.

I'm poison to her, that's what.

Have you found out what she does for a living?

Yes. She's a school teacher.

A school teacher? That beats everything. You running after a school teacher! Now I see her better—kind of big, awkward creature, very plain but not homely, hardly ever smiles, wears her hair...

You're close, Hen, but you're off too. Yes, she is sort of big and large, but in a good way. About her looks I can't say. I only see her eyes—they're china blue and they twinkle...

Like stars.

Violets, he said. Just like violets. The rest of the face doesn't count. To be honest with you, I think she has a receding chin.

How about the legs?

Not too good. A bit on the plump side. But they're not piano legs!

And her ass, does it wobble, when she walks?

He jumped to his feet. Hen, he said, putting an arm around me, it's her ass that gets me. If I could just rub my hand over it—once—I'd die happy.

She's prudish, in other words?

Untouchable.

Have you kissed her yet?

Are you crazy? Kiss her? She'd die first.

Listen, I said, don't you think that perhaps the reason you're so crazy about her is simply because she won't have anything to do with you? You've had better girls than her, from what I gather about her looks. Forget her, that's the best thing. It won't break your heart. You haven't got a heart. You're a born Don Juan.

Not any more, Hen. I can't look at another girl. I'm hooked.