If you don’t mind, she said, I’m going to let my breasts hang out. She fondled them lovingly. They’re not too bad, do you think? Could be a little fuller perhaps … I’m still a virgin.
Wasn’t that strange, she said, his mentioning Correggio? Do you think he really knows anything about Correggio?
It’s possible, I said. He used to attend the auctions with that Isaac Walker, his predecessor. He might even be acquainted with Cimabue or Carpaccio. You should hear him on Titian sometime! You’d think he had studied with him.
I’m all mixed up, said Stasia, dosing herself with another brandy. Your father talks painters, your sister talks music, and your mother talks about the weather. Nobody knows anything about anything, really. They’re like mushrooms talking together … That must have been a weird walk you had, through the cemetery. I’d have gone out of my mind.
Val doesn’t mind it, said Mona. He can take it.
Why? said Stasia. Because he’s a writer? More material, is that it?
Maybe, said I. Maybe you have to wade through rivers of shit to find a germ of reality.
Not me, said Stasia. I prefer the Village, faky as it is. At least you can air your views there.
Mona now spoke up. She had just had a bright idea. Why don’t we all go to Europe?
Yes, said Stasia airily, why don’t we?
We can manage it, said Mona.
Certainly, said Stasia. I can always borrow the passage money.
And how would we live, once there? I wanted to know.
Like we do here, said Mona. It’s simple.
And what language would we speak?
Everybody knows English, Val. Besides, there are loads of Americans in Europe. Especially in France.
And we’d sponge on them, is that it?
I didn’t say that. I say if you really want to go, there’s always a way.
We could model, said Stasia. Or Mona could. I’m too hairy.
And me, what would I do?
Write! said Mona. That’s all you can do.
I wish it were true, said I. I rose and began to pace the floor.
What’s eating you? they asked.
Europe! You dangle it in front of me like a piece of raw bait. You’re the dreamers, not me! Sure I’d like to go. You don’t know what it does to me when I hear the word. It’s like a promise of new life. But how to make a living there? We don’t know a word of French, we’re not clever … all we know is how to fleece people. And we’re not even good at that.
You’re too serious, said Mona. Use your imagination!
Yes, said Stasia, you’ve got to take a chance. Think of Gauguin!
Or of Lafcadio Hearn! said Mona.
Or Jack London! said Stasia. One can’t wait until everything’s rosy.
I know, I know. I took a seat and buried my head in my hands.
Suddenly Stasia exclaimed: I have it … we’ll go first, Mona and I, and send for you when things are lined up. How’s that?
To this I merely grunted. I was only half listening. I wasn’t following them, I had preceded them. I was already tramping the streets of Europe, chatting with passers-by, sipping a drink on a crowded terrace. I was alone but not the least bit lonely. The air smelled different, the people looked different. Even the trees and flowers were different. How I craved that—something different! To be able to talk freely, to be understood, to be accepted. A land of true kinsfolk, that’s what Europe meant to me. The home of the artist, the vagabond, the dreamer. Yes, Gauguin had had a rough time of it, and Van Gogh even worse. There were thousands, no doubt, whom we never knew of, never heard of, who went down, who faded out of sight without accomplishing anything…
I rose wearily, more exhausted by the prospect of going to Europe, even if only in the mind, than by the tedious hours spent in the bosom of the family.
I’ll get there yet, said I to myself as I made ready for bed. If they could do it, so can I. (By they I meant both the illustrious ones and the failures.) Even the birds make it.
Carried away by the thought, I had a picture of myself as another Moses, leading my people out of the wilderness. To stem the tide, reverse the process, start a grand march backward, back toward the source! Empty this vast wilderness called America, drain it of all its pale faces, halt the meaningless hustle and bustle … hand the continent back to the Indians … what a triumph that would be! Europe would stand aghast at the spectacle. Have they gone mad, deserting the land of milk and honey? Was it only a dream, then, America? Yes! I would shout. A bad dream at that. Let us begin all over again. Let us make new cathedrals, let us sing again in unison, let us make poems not of death but of life! Moving like a wave, shoulder to shoulder, doing only what is necessary and vital, building only what will last, creating only for joy. Let us pray again, to the unknown god, but in earnest, with all our hearts and souls. Let the thought of the future not make us into slaves. Let the day be sufficient unto itself. Let us open our hearts and our homes. No more melting pots! Only the pure metals, the noblest, the most ancient. Give us leaders again, and hierarchies, guilds, craftsmen, poets, jewelers, statesman, scholars, vagabonds, mountebanks. And pageants, not parades. Festivals, processions, crusades. Talk for the love of talk; work for the love of work; honor for the love of honor…
The word honor brought me to. It was like an alarm clock ringing in my ears. Imagine, the louse in his crevice talking honor! I sank deeper into the bed and, as I dozed off, I saw myself holding a tiny American flag and waving it: the good old Stars and Stripes. I held it in my right hand, proudly, as I set forth in search of work. Was it not my privilege to demand work, I, a full-fledged American citizen, the son of respectable parents, a devout worshiper of the radio, a democratic hooligan committed to progress, race prejudice and success? Marching toward the job, with a promise on my lips to make my children even more American than their parents, to turn them into guinea pigs, if need be, for the welfare of our glorious Republic. Give me a rifle to shoulder and a target to shoot at! I’ll prove whether I’m a patriot or not. America for Americans, forward march! Give me liberty or give me death! (What’s the difference?) One nation, indivisible, et cetera, et cetera. Vision 20-20, ambition boundless, past stainless, energy inexhaustible, future miraculous. No diseases, no dependents, no complexes, no vices. Born to work like a Trojan, to fall in line, to salute the flag—the American flag—and ever ready to betray the enemy. All I ask, mister, is a chance.
Too late! comes a voice from the shadows.
Too late? How’s that?
Because! Because there are 26,565,493 others ahead of you, all full-blown catalepts and of pure stainless steel, all one hundred percent to the backbone, each and every one of them approved by the Board of Health, the Christian Endeavor Society, the Daughters of the Revolution and the Ku Klux Klan.
Give me a gun! I beg. Give me a shot-gun so that I may blow my head off! This is ignominious.
And it was indeed ignominious. Worse, it was so much certified horse-shit.
Fuck you! I squeaked. I know my rights.
7
The thought that they could leave me behind like a dog while they explored Europe on their own ate into me, made me irritable, more erratic than ever, and sometimes downright diabolical in my behavior. One day I would go out to search of a job, determined to stand on my own two feet, and the next I would stay home and struggle with the play. Nights, when we gathered around the gut table, I would make notes of their conversation.
What are you doing that for? they would ask.
To check your lies, I might answer. Or—Some of this I may use in the play.
These remarks served to put spice into their dialogues. They did everything to put me off the track. Sometimes they talked like Strindberg, sometimes like Maxwell Bodenheim. To add to the confusion I would read them disturbing bits from the notebook which I now carried with me on my peregrinations in the Village. Sometimes it was a conversation (verbatim) that I had overheard outside a cafeteria or a night club, sometimes it was a descriptive account of the goings on that took place in these dives. Cleverly interspersed would be fragmentary remarks I had overheard, or pretended to have overheard, about the two of them. They were usually imaginary, but they were also real enough to cause them concern or make them blurt out the truth, which is exactly what I was gunning for.
Whenever they lost their self-control they contradicted one another and revealed things I was not supposed to hear about. Finally I pretended to be really absorbed in the writing of the play and begged them to take dictation from me: I had decided, I said, to write the last act first—it would be easier. My true motive, of course, was to show them how this manage a trois would end. It meant a bit of acting on my part, and quick thinking.
Stasia
