The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus Read online

  By now we had sampled the Chianti and were up to our ears in spaghetti. The wine had a limbering effect. He could drink a lot without losing his head. In fact, that was another one of his troubles—his inability to lose himself, even under the influence of drink.

  As if he had divined my thoughts, he began by remarking that he was an out and out mentalist. A mentalist who can even make his prick think. You’re laughing again. But it’s tragic. The young girl I spoke of—she thinks I’m a grand fucker. I’m not. But she is. She’s a real fuckaree. Me, I fuck with my brain. It’s like I was conducting a cross-examination, only with my prick instead of my mind. Sounds screwy, doesn’t it? It is too. Because the more I fuck the more I concentrate on myself. Now and then—with her, that is—I sort of come to and ask myself who’s on the other end. Must be a hang-over from the masturbating business. You follow me, don’t you? Instead of doing it to myself some one does it for me. It’s better than masturbating, because you become even more detached. The girl, of course, has a grand time. She can do anything she likes with me. That’s what tickles her … excites her. What she doesn’t know—maybe it would frighten her if I told her—is that I’m not there. You know the expression—to be all ears. Well, I’m all mind. A mind with a prick attached to it, if you can put it that way … By the way, sometime I want to ask you about yourself. How you feel when you do it … your reactions … and all that. Not that it would help much. Just curious.

  Suddenly he switched. Wanted to know if I had done any writing yet. When I said no, he replied: You’re writing right now, only you’re not aware of it. You’re writing all the time, don’t you realize that?

  Astonished by this strange observation, I exclaimed:

  You mean me—or everybody?

  Of course I don’t mean everybody! I mean you, you. His voice grew shrill and petulant. You told me once that you would like to write. Well, when do you expect to begin? He paused to take a heaping mouthful of food. Still gulping, he continued: Why do you think I talk to you the way I do? Because you’re a good listener? Not at all! I can blab my heart out to you because I know that you’re vitally uninterested. It’s not me, John Stymer, that interests you, it’s what I tell you, or the way I tell it to you. But I am interested in you, definitely. Quite a difference.

  He masticated in silence for a moment.

  You’re almost as complicated as I am, he went on. You know that, don’t you? I’m curious to know what makes people tick, especially a type like you. Don’t worry, I’ll never probe you because I know in advance you won’t give me the right answers. You’re a shadow-boxer. And me, I’m a lawyer. It’s my business to handle cases. But you, I can’t imagine what you deal in, unless it’s air.

  Here he closed up like a clam, content to swallow and chew for a while. Presently he said: I’ve a good mind to invite you to come along with me this afternoon. I’m not going back to the office. I’m going to see this gal I’ve been telling you about. Why don’t you come along? She’s easy to look at, easy to talk to. I’d like to observe your reactions. He paused a moment to see how I might take the proposal, then added: She lives out on Long Island. It’s a bit of a drive, but it may be worth it. We’ll bring some wine along and some Strega. She likes liqueurs. What say?

  I agreed. We walked to the garage where he kept his car. It took a while to defrost it. We had only gone a little ways when one thing after another gave out. With the stops we made at garages and repair shops it must have taken almost three hours to get out of the city limits. By that time we were thoroughly frozen. We had a run of sixty miles to make and it was already dark as pitch.

  Once on the highway we made several stops to warm up. He seemed to be known everywhere we stopped, and was always treated with deference. He explained, as we drove along, how he had befriended this one and that. I never take a case, he said, unless I’m sure I can win., I tried to draw him out about the girl, but his mind was on other things. Curiously, the subject uppermost in his mind at present was immortality. What was the sense in an hereafter, he wanted to know, if one lost his personality at death? He was convinced that a single lifetime was too short a period in which to solve one’s problems. I haven’t started living my own life, he said, and I’m already nearing fifty. One should live to be a hundred and fifty or two hundred, then one might get somewhere. The real problems don’t commence until you’ve done with sex and all material difficulties. At twenty-five I thought I knew all the answers. Now I feel that I know nothing about anything. Here we are, going to meet a young nymphomaniac. What sense does it make? He lit a cigarette, took a puff or two, then threw it away. The next moment he extracted a fat cigar from his breast pocket.

  You’d like to know something about her. I’ll tell you this first off—if only I had the necessary courage I’d snatch her up and head for Mexico. What to do there I don’t know. Begin all over again, I suppose. But that’s what gets me … I haven’t the guts for it. I’m a moral coward, that’s the truth. Besides, I know she’s pulling my leg. Every time I leave her I wonder who she’ll be in bed with soon as I’m out of sight. Not that I’m jealous—I hate to be made a fool of, that’s all. I am a chump, of course. In everything except the law I’m an utter fool.

  He traveled on in this vein for some time. He certainly loved to run himself down. I sat back and drank it in.

  Now it was a new tack. Do you know why I never became a writer?

  No, I replied, amazed that he had ever entertained the thought.

  Because I found out almost immediately that I had nothing to say. I’ve never lived, that’s the long and short of it. Risk nothing, gain nothing. What’s that Oriental saying? ‘To fear is not to sow because of the birds.’ That says it. Those crazy Russians you give me to read, they all had experience of life, even if they never budged from the spot they were born in. For things to happen there must be a suitable climate. And if the climate is lacking, you create one. That is, if you have genius. I never created a thing. I play the game, and I play it according to the rules. The answer to that, in case you don’t know it, is death. Yep, I’m as good as dead already. But crack this now: it’s when I’m deadest that I fuck the best. Figure it out, if you can! The last time I slept with her, just to give you an illustration, I didn’t bother to take my clothes off. I climbed in—coat, shoes, and all. It seemed perfectly natural, considering the state of mind I was in. Nor did it bother her in the least. As I say, I climbed into bed with her fully dressed and I said:Why don’t we just lie here and fuck ourselves to death? A strange idea, what? Especially coming from a respected lawyer with a family and all that. Anyway, the words had hardly left my mouth when I said to myself: ‘You dope! You’re dead already. Why pretend?)—How do you like that? With that I gave myself up to it … to the fucking, I mean.

  Here I threw in a teaser. Had he ever pictured himself, I asked, possessing a prick … and using ill … in the hereafter?

  Have I? he exclaimed. That’s just what bothers me, that very thought. An immortal life with an extension prick hooked to my brain is something I don’t fancy in the least. Not that I want to lead the life of an angel either. I want to be myself, John Stymer, with all the bloody problems that are mine. I want time to think things out … a thousand years or more. Sounds goofy, doesn’t it? But that’s how I’m built. The Marquis de Sade, he had loads of time on his hands. He thought out a lot of things, I must admit, but I can’t agree with his conclusions. Anyway, what I want to say is—it’s not so terrible to spend your life in prison … if you have an active mind. What is terrible is to make a prisoner of yourself. And that’s what most of us are—self-made prisoners. There are scarcely a dozen men in a generation who break out. Once you see life with a clear eye it’s all a farce. A grand farce. Imagine a man wasting his life defending or convicting others! The business of law is thoroughly insane. Nobody is a whit better off because we have laws. No, it’s a fool’s game, dignified by giving it a pompous name. To-morrow I may find myself sitting on the bench. A judge, no l
ess. Will I think any more of myself because I’m called a judge? Will I be able to change anything? Not on your life. I’ll play the game again … the judges’ game. That’s why I say we’re licked from the start. I’m aware of the fact that we all have a part to play and that all any one can do, supposedly, is to play his part to the best of his ability. Well, I don’t like my part. The idea of playing a part doesn’t appeal to me. Not even if the parts be interchangeable. You get me? I believe it’s time we had a new deal, a new set-up. The courts have to go, the laws have to go, the police have to go, the prisons have to go. It’s insane, the whole business. That’s why I fuck my head off.. You would too, if you could see it as I do. He broke off, sputtering like a Bre-cracker.

  After a brief silence he informed me that we were soon there. Remember, make yourself at home. Do anything, say anything you please. Nobody will stop you. If you Want to take a crack at her, it’s O.K. with me. Only don’t make a habit of it!

  The house was shrouded in darkness as we pulled into the driveway. A note was pinned to the dining room table. From Belle, the great fuckaree. She had grown tired of waiting for us, didn’t believe we would make it, and so on.

  Where is she, then? I asked.

  Probably gone to the city to stay the night with a friend.

  He didn’t seem greatly upset, I must say. After a few grunts … the bitch this and the bitch that … he went to the refrigerator to see what there was in the way of leftovers.

  We might as well stay the night here, he said. She’s left us some baked beans and cold ham, I see. Will that hold you?

  As we were polishing off the remnants he informed me that there was a comfortable room upstairs with twin beds. Now we can have a good talk, he said.

  I was ready enough for bed but not for a heart to heart talk. As for Stymer, nothing seemed capable of slowing down the machinery of his mind, neither frost nor drink nor fatigue itself.

  I would have dropped off immediately on hitting the pillow had Stymer not opened fire in the way he did. Suddenly I was as wide awake as if I had taken a double dose of benzadrine. His first words, delivered in a steady, even tone, electrified me.

  There’s nothing surprises you very much, I notice. Well, get a load of this…

  That’s how be began.

  One of the reasons I’m such a good lawyer is because I’m also something of a criminal. You’d hardly think me capable of plotting another person’s death, would you? Well, I am. I’ve decided to do away with my wife. Just how, I don’t know yet. It’s not because of Belle, either. It’s just that she bores me to death. I can’t stand it any longer. For twenty years now I haven’t had an intelligent word from her. She’s driven me to the last ditch, and she knows it. She knows all about Belle; there’s never been any secret about that. All she cares about is that it shouldn’t leak out. It’s my wife, God damn her! who turned me into a masturbator, I was that sick of her, almost from the beginning, that the thought of sleeping with her made me ill. True, we might have arranged a divorce. But why support a lump of clay for the rest of my life? Since I fell in with Belle I’ve had a chance to do a little thinking and planning. My one aim is to get out of the country, far away, and start all over again. At what I don’t know. Not the law, certainly. I want isolation and I want to do as little work as possible.

  He took a breath. I made no comments. He expected none.

  To be frank with you, I was wondering if I could tempt you to join me. I’d take care of you as long as the money held out, that’s understood. I was thinking it out as we drove here. That note from Belle—I dictated the message, I had no thought of switching things when we started, please believe me. But the more we talked the more I felt that you were just the person I’d like to have around, if I made the jump.

  He hesitated a second, then added: I had to tell you about my wife because … because to live in close quarters with some one and keep a secret of that sort would be too much of a strain.

  But I’ve got a wife too! I found myself exclaiming.

  Though I haven’t much use for her, I don’t see myself doing her in just to run off somewhere with you.

  I understand, said Stymer calmly, I’ve given thought to that too.

  So?

  I could get you a divorce easily enough and see to it that you don’t have to pay alimony. What do you say to that?

  Not interested, I replied. Not even if you could provide another woman for me. I have my own plans.

  You don’t think I’m a queer, do you?

  No, not at all. You’re queer, all right, but not in that way. To be honest with you, you’re not the sort of person I’d want to be around for long. Besides, it’s all too damned vague. It’s more like a bad dream.

  He took this with his habitual unruffled calm. Whereupon, impelled to say something more, I demanded to know what it was that he expected of me, what did he hope to obtain from such a relationship?

  I hadn’t the slightest fear of being tempted into such a crazy adventure, naturally, but I thought it only decent to pretend to draw him out. Besides, I was curious as to what he thought my role might be.

  It’s hard to know where to begin, he drawled. Supposing … just suppose, I say … that we found a good place to hide away. A place like Costa Rica, for example, or Nicaragua, where life is easy and the climate agreeable. And suppose you found a girl you liked … that isn’t too hard to imagine, is it? Well then … You’ve told me that you like … that you intend … to write one day. I know that I can’t. But I’ve got ideas, plenty of them, I can tell you. I’ve not been a criminal lawyer for nothing. As for you, you haven’t read Dostoievsky and all those other mad Russians for nothing either. Do you begin to get the drift? Look, Dostoievsky is dead, finished with. And that’s where we start. From Dostoievsky. He dealt with the soul; we’ll deal with the mind.

  He was about to pause again. Go on, I said, it sounds interesting.

  Well, he resumed, whether you know it or not, there is no longer anything left in the world that might be called soul. Which partly explains why you find it so hard to get started, as a writer. How can one write about people who have no souls? I can, however. I’ve been living with just such people, working for them, studying them, analyzing them. I don’t mean my clients alone. It’s easy enough to look upon criminals as soulless. But what if I tell you that there are nothing but criminals everywhere, no matter where you look? One doesn’t have to be guilty of a crime to be a criminal. But anyway, here’s what I had in mind … I know you can write. Furthermore, I don’t mind in the least if some one else writes my books. For you to come by the material that I’ve accumulated would take several lifetimes. Why waste more time? Oh yes, there’s something I forgot to mention … it may frighten you off. It’s this … whether the books are ever published or not is all one to me. I want to get them out of my system, nothing more. Ideas are universal: I don’t consider them my property…

  He took a drink of ice water from the jug beside the bed.

  All this probably strikes you as fantastic. Don’t try to come to a decision immediately. Think it over I Look at it from every angle. I wouldn’t want you to accept and then get cold feet in a month or two. But let me call your attention to something. If you continue in the same groove much longer you’ll never have the courage to make the break. You have no excuse for prolonging your present way of life. You’re obeying the law of inertia, nothing more.

  He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by his own remarks. Then clearly and swiftly he proceeded.

  I’m not the ideal companion for you, agreed. I have every fault imaginable and I’m thoroughly self-centered, as I’ve said many times. But I’m not envious or jealous, or even ambitious, in the usual sense. Aside from working hours—and I don’t intend to run myself into the ground—you’d be alone most of the time, free to do as you please. With me you’d be alone, even if we shared the same room. I don’t care where we live, so long as it’s in a foreign land. From now on it’s the moon for me. I’m
divorcing myself from my fellow-man. Nothing could possibly tempt me to participate in the game. Nothing of value, in my eyes at least, can possibly be accomplished at present. I may not accomplish anything either, to be truthful. But at least I’ll have the satisfaction of doing what I believe in … Look, maybe I haven’t expressed too clearly what I mean by this Dostoievsky business. It’s worth going into a little further, if you can bear with me. As I see it, with Dostoievsky’s death the world entered upon a complete new phase of existence. Dostoievsky summed up the modern age much as Dante did the Middle Ages. The modern age—a misnomer, by the way—was just a transition period, a breathing spell, in which man could adjust himself to the death of the soul. Already we’re leading a sort of grotesque lunar life. The beliefs, hopes, principles, convictions that sustained our civilization are gone. And they won’t be resuscitated. Take that on faith for the time being. No, henceforth and for a long time to come we’re going to live in the mind. That means destruction … self-destruction. If you ask why I can only say—because man was not made to live by mind alone. Man was meant to live with his whole being. But the nature of this being is lost, forgotten, buried. The purpose of life on earth is to discover one’s true being—and to live up to it! But we won’t go into that. That’s for the distant future. The problem is—meanwhile. And that’s where I come in. Let me put it to you as briefly as possible … All that we have stifled, you, me, all of us, ever since civilization began, has got to be lived out. We’ve got to recognize ourselves for what we are. And what are we but the end product of a tree that is no longer capable of bearing fruit. We’ve got to go underground, therefore, like seed, so that something new, something different, may come forth. It isn’t time that’s required, it’s a new way of looking at things. A new appetite for life, in other words. As it is, we have but a semblance of life. We’re alive only in dream. It’s the mind in us that refuses to be killed off. The mind is tough—and far more mysterious than the wildest dreams of theologians. It may well be that there is nothing but mind … not the little mind we know, to be sure, but the great Mind in which we swim, the Mind which permeates the whole universe. Dostoievsky, let me remind you, had amazing insight not only into the soul of man but into the mind and spirit of the universe. That’s why it’s impossible to shake him off, even though, as I said, what he represents is done for.