Nexus. Генри Миллер
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but curious.
For reply I received a grunt.
“Was she angry?”
Another grunt, followed by—“I suppose so. Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”
Her manner indicated that she was secretly pleased. Ordinarily she would have been upset, or else gone in search of Mona.
“Can I make you some coffee?” she asked. It was the first time she had ever made such suggestion.
“Why not?” said I, affable as could be.
I sat down at the table, facing her. She had decided to drink her coffee standing up.
“A strange woman, isn’t she?” said Stasia, skipping all preliminaries. “What do you really know about her? Have you ever met her brothers or her mother or her sister? She claims her sister is far more beautiful than she is. Do you believe that? But she hates her. Why? She tells you so much, then leaves you dangling. Everything has to be turned into a mystery, have you noticed?”
She paused a moment to sip her coffee.
“We have a lot to talk about, if, we ever get the chance. Maybe between us we could piece things together.”
I was just about to remark that it was useless even to try when she resumed her monologue.
“You’ve seen her on the stage, I suppose?”
I nodded.
“Know why I ask? Because she doesn’t strike me as an actress. Nor a writer either. Nothing fits with anything. Everything’s part of a huge fabrication, herself included. The only thing that’s real about her is her make-believe. And—her love for you.”
That last gave me a jolt. “You really believe that, do you?”
“Believe it?” she echoed. “If she didn’t have you there would be no reason for her to exist. You’re her life. . . .”
“And you? Where do you fit in?”
She gave me a weird smile. “Me? I’m just another piece of the unreality she creates around her. Or a mirror perhaps in which she catches a glimpse of her true self now and then. Distorted, of course.”
Then, veering to more familiar ground, she said: “Why don’t you make her stop this gold digging? There’s no need for it. Besides, it’s disgusting the way she goes at it. What makes her do it I don’t know. It’s not money she’s after. Money is only the pretext for something else. It’s as though she digs at someone just to awaken interest in herself. And the moment one shows a sign of real interest she humiliates him. Even poor Ricardo had to be tortured; she had him squirming like an eel. . . . We’ve got to do something, you and I. This has to stop.
“If you were to take a job,” she continued, “she wouldn’t have to go to that horrible place every night and listen to all those filthy-mouthed creatures who fawn on her. What’s stopping you? Are you afraid she would be unhappy leading a humdrum existence? Or perhaps you think I’m the one who’s leading her astray? Do you? Do you think I like this sort of life? No matter what you think of me you must surely realize that I have nothing to do with all this.”
She stopped dead.
“Why don’t you speak? Say something!”
Just as I was about to open my trap in walks Mona—with a bunch of violets. A peace offering.
Soon the atmosphere became so peaceful, so harmonious, that they were almost beside themselves. Mona got out her mending and Stasia her paint box. I took it all in as if it were happening on the stage.
In less than no time Stasia had made a recognizable portrait of me—on the wall which I was facing. It was in the image of a Chinese mandarin, garbed in a Chinese blue jacket, which emphasized the austere, sagelike expression I had evidently assumed.
Mona thought it ravishing. She also commended me in a motherly way for sitting so still and for being so sweet to Stasia. She had always known we would one day get to know one another, become firm friends. And so on.
She was so happy that in her excitement she inadvertently spilled the contents of her purse on the table—looking for a cigarette—and out fell the letter. To her astonishment I picked it up and handed it to her, without the slightest attempt to scan a line or two.
“Why don’t you let him read it?” said Stasia.
“I will,” she said, “but not now. I don’t want to spoil this moment.”
Said Stasia: “There’s nothing in it to be ashamed of.”
“I know that,” said Mona.
“Forget about it,” said I. “I’m no longer curious.”
“You’re wonderful, the two of you! How could anyone help loving you? I love you both, dearly.”
To this outburst Stasia, now in a slightly Satanic mood, replied: “Tell us, whom do you love more?”
Without the slightest hesitation came the reply. “I couldn’t possibly love either of you more. I love you both. My love for one has nothing to do with my love for the other. The more I love you, Val, the more I love Stasia.”
“There’s an answer for you,” said Stasia, picking up her brush to resume work on the portrait.
There was silence for a few moments, then Mona spoke up. “What on earth were you two talking about while I was gone?”
“About you, of course,” said Stasia. “Weren’t we, Val?”
“Yes, we were saying what a wonderful creature you are. Only we couldn’t understand why you try to keep things from us.”
She bristled immediately. “What things? What do you mean?”
“Let’s not go into it now,” said Stasia, plying the brush. “But soon we ought to sit down, the three of us, and get things straight, don’t you think?” With this she turned round and looked Mona full in the face.
“I have no objection,” was Mona’s cold response.
“See, she’s peeved,” said Stasia.
“She doesn’t understand,” said I.
Again a flare-up. “What don’t I understand? What is this? What are you driving at, the two of you?”
“We really didn’t have much to say while you were gone,” I put in. “We were talking about truth and truthfulness mostly . . . Stasia, as you know, is a very truthful person.”
A faint smile spread over Mona’s lips. She was about to say something, but I cut in.
“It’s nothing to worry about. We’re not going to put you through a cross-examination.”
“We only want to see how honest you can be,” said Stasia.
“You talk as if I were playing a game with you.”
“Exactly,” said Stasia.
“So that’s it! I leave the two of you alone for a few minutes and you rip me up the back. What have I done to deserve such treatment?”
At this point I lost track of the conversation. All I could think of was that last remark—what have I done to deserve such treatment? It was my mother’s favorite phrase when in distress. Usually she accompanied it with a backward tilt of the head, as if addressing her words to the Almighty. The first time I heard it—I was only a child—it filled me with terror and disgust. It was the tone of voice more than the words which roused my resentment. Such self-righteousness! Such self-pity! As if God had singled her out, her, a model of a creature, for wanton punishment.
Hearing it now, from Mona’s lips, I felt as if the ground had opened beneath my feet. “Then you are guilty,” I said to my self. Guilty of what I made no effort to