Nexus. Генри Миллер
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made such a din I thought the landlady would be down with a cleaver.
Staggering to his feet, his pants still down around his ankles, Kronski finally managed to splutter: “What’s all the fuss about? She’s normal, just as I thought. In fact, she’s too normal. That’s what got me excited. What’s wrong with that?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” I chimed in, looking from one to the other.
“Shoo him out of here!” they yelled.
“Easy now! Take it easy!” said Kronski, putting a little soothing syrup into his voice. “You asked me to examine her, and you knew as well as I that there’s nothing wrong with her physically. It’s her belfry that needs looking into, not her private parts. I can do that too, but it takes time. And what would you have me prove? Answer that, if you can! Do you want to know something? I could have the three of you locked up.” He snapped his fingers in our faces. “Like that!” he said, snapping his fingers again. “For what? Moral turpitude, that’s what. You wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, none of you.”
He paused a full moment to let this sink in.
“I’m not mean enough, however, to do a thing like that. I’m too good a friend, aren’t I, Mister Miller? But don’t try to throw me out for doing you a good turn.”
Stasia was standing there stark naked, her pants slung over her arm. Finally she became self-conscious and started slipping into her trousers. In doing so she slipped and fell. Mona immediately rushed to her aid, only to be vigorously pushed aside.
“Leave me alone!” cried Stasia. “I can help myself. I’m not a child.” So saying, she picked herself up. She stood upright a moment, then bending her head forward, she looked at herself, at the very center of her anatomy. With that she burst into a laugh, a demented sort of laugh.
“So I’m normal,” she said, laughing still harder. “What a joke! Normal, because there’s a hole here big enough to stick something into. Here, give me a candle! I’ll show you how normal I am.”
With this she began making the most obscene gestures, contorting her pelvis, writhing as if in the throes of an orgasm.
“A candle!” she screamed. “Get a big, fat black one! I’ll show you how normal I am!”
“Please, Stasia, stop it, I beg you!” cried Mona.
“Yes, cut it!” said Kronski sternly. “You don’t need to give us an exhibition.”
The word exhibition seemed only to incense her more.
“This is my exhibition,” she screamed. “And it’s gratis this time. Usually I get paid for making an ass of myself, don’t I?” She turned on Mona. “Don’t I?” she hissed. “Or haven’t you told them how we raise the rent money?”
“Please, Stasia, please!” begged Mona. She had tears in her eyes.
But nothing could halt Stasia now. Grabbing a candle from the bureau top, she stuck it up her crotch, and as she did so she rolled her pelvis frantically.
“Isn’t that worth fifty dollars?” she cried. “What’s his name would pay even more, but then I would have to let him suck me off, and I don’t like being sucked off. Not by a pervert, anyway.”
“Stop it! Stop it, or I’ll run away!” From Mona.
She quieted down. The candle fell to the floor. A new expression now came over her countenance. As she slipped into her blouse she said very quietly, addressing her words to me:
“You see, Val, if anyone must be injured or humiliated, it’s me, not your dear wife. I have no moral sense. I have only love. If money is needed, I’m always ready to put on an act. Since I’m crazy, it doesn’t matter.” She paused, then turned to the dresser in the other corner of the room. Opening a drawer, she pulled out an envelope. “See this?” she said, waving the envelope in the air. “There’s a check in this sent by my guardians. Enough to pay next month’s rent. But”—and she calmly proceeded to tear the envelope to bits—“we don’t want that kind of money, do we? We know how to make our own way . . . giving exhibitions . . . pretending that we’re Lesbians . . . pretending that we’re make-believe Lesbians. Pretending, pretending . . . I’m sick of it. Why don’t we pretend that we’re just human beings?”
It was Kronski who now spoke up.
“Of course you’re a human being, and a most unusual one. Somewhere along the line you got bitched up—how, I don’t know. What’s more, I don’t want to know. If I thought you would listen to me I’d urge you to get out of here, leave these two.” He threw a contemptuous look at Mona and myself. “Yes, leave them to solve their own problems. They don’t need you, and you certainly don’t need them. You don’t belong in a place like New York. Frankly, you don’t fit anywhere. . . . But what I want to say is this . . . I came here as a friend. You need a friend. As for these two, they don’t know the meaning of the word. Of the three you’re probably the healthiest. And you have genius as well. . . .”
I thought he would continue indefinitely. Suddenly, however, he recalled aloud that he had an urgent visit to make and made an abrupt departure.
Later that evening—they had decided not to go out—a curious thing happened. It was just after dinner, in the midst of a pleasant conversation. The cigarettes had given out, and Mona had asked me to look in her bag. Usually there was a stray one to be found in the bottom of the bag. I rose, went to the dresser where the bag lay and, as I opened the bag, I noticed an envelope addressed to Mona in Stasia’s hand. In a second Mona was at my side. If she hadn’t shown such panic I might have ignored the presence of the envelope. Unable to restrain herself, she made a grab for the envelope. I snatched it out of her hand. She made another grab for it and a tussle ensued in which the envelope, now torn, fell to the floor. Stasia fastened on it, then handed it back to Mona.
“Why all the fuss?” I said, unconsciously repeating Kronski’s words.
The two of them replied at once: “It’s none of your business.”
I said nothing more. But my curiosity was thoroughly aroused. I had a hunch the letter would turn up again. Better to pretend complete lack of interest.
Later that same evening, on going to the toilet, I discovered bits of the envelope floating in the bowl. I chuckled. What a flimsy way of telling me that the letter had been destroyed! I wasn’t being taken in that easily. Fishing the pieces of envelope out of the bowl I examined them carefully. No part of the letter adhered to any of the pieces. I was certain now that the letter itself had been preserved, that it had been stashed away somewhere, some place I would never think to look.
A few days later I picked up a curious piece of information. It fell out during the course of a heated argument between the two of them. They were in Stasia’s little room, where they usually repaired to discuss secret affairs. Unaware of my presence in the house, or perhaps too excited to keep their voices down, words were bandied about that should never have reached my ears.
Mona was raising hell with Stasia, I gathered, because the latter had been throwing her money around like a fool. What money? I wondered. Had she come into a fortune? What made Mona furious, apparently, was that Stasia had given some worthless idiot—I couldn’t catch the name—a thousand dollars. She was urging her to make some effort to recover part of the money at least. And Stasia kept repeating that she wouldn’t think of it, that she didn’t care what the fool did with her money.
Then I heard Mona say: “If you don’t watch out you’ll be waylaid some night.”
And Stasia innocently: “They’ll be out of luck. I don’t have any more.”
“You don’t have any more?”
“Of course not! Not a red cent.”
“You’re mad!”
“I