e inside his belly, and that it's rotting
there.

As he's putting on his things he falls back again into a semi-comatose
state. He stands there with one arm in his coat sleeve and his hat on
ass-ways and he begins to dream aloud -- about the Riviera, about the sun,
about lazing one's life away. "All I ask of life," he says, "is a bunch of
books, a bunch of dreams, and a bunch of cunt." As he mumbles this
meditatively he looks at me with the softest, the most insidious smile. "Do
you like that smile?" he says. And then disgustedly -- "Jesus, if I could only
find some rich cunt to smile at that way!"

"Only a rich cunt can save me now," he says with an air of utmost weariness.
"One gets tired of chasing after new cunts all the time. It gets mechanical.
The trouble is, you see, I can't fall in love. I'm too much of an egoist.
Women only help me to dream, that's all. It's a vice, like drink or opium.
I've got to have a new one every day; if I don't I get morbid. I think too
much. Sometimes I'm amazed at myself, how quick I pull it off -- and how
little it really means. I do it automatically like. Sometimes I'm not
thinking about a woman at all, but suddenly I notice a woman looking at me
and then bango! it starts all over again. Before I know what I'm doing I've
got her up to the room. I don't even remember what I say to them. I bring
them up to the room, give them a pat on the ass, and before I know what it's
all about it's over. It's like a dream ... Do you know what I mean?"

He hasn't much use for the French girls. Can't stand them. "Either they want
money or they want you to marry them. At bottom they're all whores. I'd
rather wrestle with a virgin," he says. "They give you a little illusion.
They put up a fight at least." Just the same, as we glance over the
<i>terrasse</i> there is hardly a whore in sight whom he hasn't fucked at
some time or other. Standing at the bar he points them out to me, one by
one, goes over them anatomically, describes their good points and their bad.
"They're all frigid," he says. And then begins to mould his hands, thinking
of the nice, juicy virgins who are just dying for it.

In the midst of his reveries he suddenly arrests himself, and grabbing my arm
excitedly he points to a whale of a woman who is just lowering herself into a
seat. "There's my Danish cunt," he grunts. "See that ass? <i>Danish.</i> How
that woman loves it! She just begs me for it. Come over here ... look at her
now, from the side! Look at that ass, will you? It's enormous. I tell you,
when she climbs over me I can hardly get my arms around it. It blots out the
whole world. She makes me feel like a little bug crawling inside her. I don't
know why I fall for her -- I suppose it's that ass. It's so incongruous like.
And the creases in it! You can't forget an ass like that. It's a fact ... a
solid fact. The others, they may bore you, or they may give you a moment's
illusion, but this one -- with her ass! -- zowie, you can't obliterate her ...
it's like going to bed with a monument on top of you."

The Danish cunt seems to have electrified him. He's lost all his sluggishness
now. His eyes are popping out of his head. And of course one thing reminds
him of another. He wants to get out of the fucking hotel because the noise
bothers him. He wants to write a book too so as to have something to occupy
his mind. But then the goddamned job stands in the way. "It takes it out of
you, that fucking job! I don't want to write about Montparnasse ... I want to
write my life, my thoughts. I want to get the dirt out of my belly ...
Listen, get that one over there! I had her a long time ago. She used to be
down near Les Halles. A funny bitch. She lay on the edge of the bed and
pulled her dress up. Ever try it that way? Not bad. She didn't hurry me
either. She just lay back and played with her hat while I slugged away at
her. And when I come she says sort of bored like -- Are you through? Like it
didn't make any difference at all. Of course, it doesn't make any difference,
I know that god-damn well ... but the cold blooded way she had ... I sort of
liked it ... it was fascinating, you know? When she goes to wipe herself she
begins to sing. Going out of the hotel she was still singing. Didn't even say
<i>Au revoir!</i> Walks off swinging her hat and humming to herself like.
That's a whore for you! A good lay though. I think I liked her better than my
virgin. There's something depraved about screwing a woman who doesn't give a
fuck about it. It heals your blood ..." And then, after a moment's meditation
-- "Can you imagine what she'd be like if she had any feelings?"

"Listen," he says, "I want you to come to the Club with me tomorrow
afternoon ... there's a dance on."

"I can't tomorrow, Joe. I promised to help Carl out..."

"Listen, forget that prick! I want you to do me a favor.
It's like this" -- he commences to mould his hands again. "I've got a cunt
lined up ... she promised to stay with me on my night off. But I'm not
positive about her yet. She's got a mother you see ... some shit of a
painter, she chews my ear off every time I see her. I think the truth is,
the mother's jealous. I don't think she'd mind so much if I gave her a lay
first. You know how it is ... Anyway, I thought maybe you wouldn't mind
taking the mother ... she's not so bad ... if I hadn't seen the daughter I
might have considered her myself. The daughter's nice and young, fresh like,
you know what I mean? There's a clean smell to her ..."

"Listen, Joe, you'd better find somebody else ..."

"Aw, don't take it like that! I know how you feel about it. It's only a
little favor I'm asking you to do for me. I don't know how to get rid of the
old hen. I thought first I'd get her drunk and ditch her -- but I don't think
the young one'd like that. They're sentimental like. They come from Minnesota
or somewhere. Anyway, come around tomorrow and wake me up, will you?
Otherwise I'll oversleep. And besides, I want you to help me find a room. You
know I'm helpless. Find me a room in a quiet street, somewhere near here.
I've got to stay around here ... I've got credit here. Listen, promise me
you'll do that for me. I'll buy you a meal now and then. Come around anyway,
because I go nuts talking to these foolish cunts. I want to talk to you about
Havelock Ellis. Jesus, I've had the book out for three weeks now and I
haven't looked at it. You sort of rot here. Would you believe it, I've never
been to the Louvre -- nor the Comedie Francaise. Is it worth going to those
joints? Still, it sort of takes your mind off things, I suppose. What do you
do with yourself all day? Don't you get bored? What do you do for a lay?
Listen ... come here! Don't run away yet ... I'm lonely. Do you know
something -- if this keeps up another year I'll go nuts. I've got to get out
of this fucking country. There's nothing for me here. I know it's lousy now,
in America, but just the same ... You go queer over here ... all these cheap
shits sitting on their ass all day bragging about their work and none of them
is worth a stinking damn. They're all failures -- that's why they come over
here. Listen, Joe, don't you ever get homesick? You're a funny guy ... you
seem to like it over here. What do you see in it... I wish you'd tell me. I
wish to Christ I could stop thinking about myself. I'm all twisted up inside
... it's like a knot in there ... Listen, I know I'm boring the shit out of
you, but I've got to talk to someone. I can't talk to those guys upstairs ...
you know what those bastards are like ... they all take a by-line. And Carl,
the little prick, he's so god-damned selfish. I'm an egotist, but I'm not
selfish. There's a difference. I'm a neurotic, I guess. I can't stop thinking
about myself. It isn't that I think myself so important.... I simply can't
think about anything else, that's all. If I could fall in love with a woman
that might help some. But I can't find a woman who interests me. I'm in a
mess, you can see that can't you? What do you advise me to do? What would you
do in my place? Listen, I don't want to hold you back any longer, but wake me
up tomorrow -- at one-thirty -- will you? I'll give you something extra if
you'll shine my shoes. And listen, if you've got an extra shirt, a clean one,
bring it along, will you? Shit, I'm grinding my balls off on that job, and it
doesn't even give me a clean shirt. They've got us over here like a bunch of
niggers. Ah, well, shit! I'm going to take a walk ... wash the dirt out of my
belly. Don't forget, <i>tomorrow!</i>"

For six months or more it's been going on, this correspondence with the rich
cunt, Irene. Recently I've been reporting to Carl every day in order to bring
the affair to a head, because as far as Irene is concerned this thing could
go on indefinitely. In the last few days there's been a perfect avalanche of
letters exchanged; the last letter we dispatched was almost forty pages long,
and written in three languages. It was a <i>pot-pourri,</i> the last letter
-- tag ends of old novels, slices from the Sunday supplement, reconstructed
versions of old letters to Liona and Tania, garbled transliterations of
Rabelais and Petronius -- in short, we exhausted ourselves. Finally Irene
decides to come out of her shell. Finally a letter arrives giving a
rendez-vous at her hotel. Carl is pissing in his pants. It's one thing to
write letters to a woman you don't know; it's another thing entirely to call
on her and make love to her. At the last moment he's quaking so that I almost
fear I'll have to substitute for him. When we get out of the taxi in front of
her hotel he's trembling so much that I have to walk him around the block
first. He's already had two Pernods, but they haven't made the slightest
impression on him. The sight of the hotel itself is enough to crush him: it's
a pretentious place with one of those huge empty lobbies in which
Englishwomen sit for hours with a blank look. In order to make sure that he
wouldn't run away I stood by while the porter telephoned to announce him.
Irene was there, and she was waiting for him. As he got into the lift he
threw me a last despairing glance, one of those mute appeals which a dog
makes when you put a noose around its neck. Going through the revolving door
I thought of Van Norden ...

I go back to the hotel and wait for a telephone call. He's only got an
hour's time and he's promised to let me know the results before going to
work. I look over the carbons of the letters we sent her. I try to imagine
the situation as it actually is, but it's beyond me. Her letters are much
better than ours -- they're sincere, that's plain. By now they've sized each
other up. I wonder if he's still pissing in his pants.

The telephone rings. His voice sounds queer, squeaky, as though he were
frightened and jubilant at the same time. He asks me to substitute for him
at the office. "Tell the bastard anything! Tell him I'm dying ..."

"Listen, Carl ... can you tell me ...?"

"Hello! Are you Henry Miller?" It's a woman's voice. It's Irene. She's
saying hello to me. Her voice sounds beautiful over the phone ... beautiful.
For a moment I'm in a perfect panic. I don't know what to say to her. I'd
like to say: "Listen, Irene, I think you're beautiful ... I think you're
<i>wonderful."</i> I'd like to say one true thing to her, no matter how
silly it would sound, because now that I hear her voice everything is
changed. But before I can gather my wits Carl is on the phone again and he's
saying in that queer squeaky voice: "She likes you, Joe. I told her all
about you ..."

At the office I have to hold copy for Van Norden. When it comes time for the
break he pulls me aside. He looks glum and ravaged.

"So he's dying, is he, the little prick? Listen, what's the low-down on
this?"

"I think he went to see his rich cunt," I answer calmly.

<i>"What!</i> You mean he called on her?" He seems beside himself. "Listen,
where does she live? What's her name?" I pretend ignorance. "Listen," he
says, "you're a decent guy. Why the hell don't you let me in on this
racket?"

In order to appease him I promise finally that I'll tell him everything as
soon as I get the details from Carl. I can hardly wait myself until I see
Carl.

Around noon next day I knock at his door. He's up already and lathering his
beard. Can't tell a thing from the
expression on his face. Can't even tell whether he's going to tell me the
truth. The sun is streaming in through the open window, the birds are
chirping, and yet somehow, why it is I don't know, the room seems more
barren and poverty-stricken than ever. The floor is slathered with lather,
and on the rack there are the two dirty towels which are never changed. And
somehow Carl isn't changed either, and that puzzles me more than anything.
This morning the whole world ought to be changed, for bad or good, but
changed, radically changed. And yet Carl is standing there lathering his
face and not a single detail is altered.

"Sit down ... sit down there on the bed," he says. "You're going to hear
everything ... but wait first ... wait a little." He commences to lather his
face again, and then to hone his razor. He even remarks about the water ...
no hot water again.

"Listen, Carl, I'm on tenter-hooks. You can torture me afterwards, if you
like, but tell me now, tell me one thing ... was it good or bad?"

He turns away from the mirror with brush in hand and gives me a strange
smile. "Wait! I'm going to tell you everything ..."

"That means it was a failure."

"No," he says, drawing out his words. "It wasn't a failure, and it wasn't a
success either ... By the way, did you fix it up for me at the office? What
did you tell them?"

I see it's no use trying to pull it out of him. When he gets good and ready
he'll tell me. Not before. I lie back on the bed, silent as a clam. He goes
on shaving.

Suddenly, apropos of nothing at all, he begins to talk -- disconnectedly at
first, and then more and more clearly, emphatically, resolutely. It's a
struggle to get it out, but he seems determined to relate everything; he
acts as if he were getting something off his conscience. He even reminds me
of the look he gave me as he was going up the elevator shaft. He dwells on
that lingeringly, as though to imply that everything were contained in that
last moment, as though, if he had to the power to alter things, he would
never have put foot outside the elevator.

She was in her dressing sack when he called. There was a bucket of champagne
on the dresser. The room was rather dark and her voice was lovely. He gives
me all the details about the room, the champagne, how the <i>garcon</i>
opened it, the noise it made, the way her dressing sack rustled when she came
forward to greet him -- he tells me everything but what I want to hear.

It was about eight when he called on her. At eight-thirty he was nervous,
thinking about the job. "It was about nine when I called you, wasn't it?" he
says.

"Yes, about that."

"I was nervous, see ..."

"I know that. Go on ..." I don't know whether to believe him or not,
especially after those letters we concocted. I don't even know whether I've
heard him accurately, because what he's telling me sounds utterly fantastic.
And yet it sounds true too, knowing the sort of guy he is. And then I
remember his voice over the telephone, that strange mixture of fright and
jubilation. But why isn't he more jubilant now? He keeps smiling all the
time, smiling like a rosy little bed-bug that has had its fill.

"It was nine o'clock," he says once again, "when I called you up, wasn't it?"
I nod my head wearily. Yes, it was nine o'clock. He is certain now that it
was nine o'clock because he remembers having taken out his watch. Anyway,
when he looked at his watch again it was ten o'clock. At ten o'clock she was
lying on the divan with her boobies in her hands. That's the way he gives it
to me -- in driblets. At eleven o'clock it was all settled; they were going
to run away, to Borneo. Fuck the husband! She never loved him anyway. She
would never have written the first letter if the husband wasn't old and
passionless. "And then she says to me: 'But listen, dear, how do you know you
won't grow tired of me?' "

At this point I burst out laughing. This sounds preposterous to me, I can't
help it. "And you said?"

"What did you expect me to say? I said: how could anyone ever grow tired of
you?"

And then he describes to me what happened after that, how he bent down and
kissed her breasts, and how, after he had kissed them fervidly, he stuffed
them back into her corsage, or whatever it is they call these things. And
after that another <i>coupe</i> of champagne.

Around midnight the <i>garcon</i> arrives with beer and sandwiches -- caviar
sandwiches. And all the while, so he says, he has been dying to take a leak.
He had one hard-on, but it faded out. All the while his bladder is fit to
burst, but he imagines, the cute little prick that he is, that the situation
calls for delicacy.

At one-thirty she's for hiring a carriage and driving through the Bois. He
has only one thought in his head -- how to take a leak? "I love you ... I
adore you," he says. "I'll go anywhere you say -- Istamboul, Singapore,
Honolulu. Only I must go now ... It's getting late."

He tells me all this in his dirty little room, with the sun pouring in and
the birds chirping away like mad. I don't yet know whether she was beautiful
or not. He doesn't know himself, the imbecile. He rather thinks she wasn't.
The room was dark and then there was the champagne and his nerves all
frazzled.

"But you ought to know something about her -- if this isn't all a god-damned
lie!"

"Wait a minute," he says. "Wait ... let me think! No, she wasn't beautiful.
I'm sure of that now. She had a streak of gray hair over her forehead ... I
remember that. But that wouldn't be so bad -- I had almost forgotten it you
see. No, it was her arms -- they were thin ... they were thin and brittle." He
begins to pace back and forth. -- Suddenly, he stops dead. "If she were only
ten years younger!" he exclaims. "If she were ten years younger I might
overlook the streak of gray hair ... and even the brittle arms. But she's
too old. You see, with a cunt like that every year counts now. She won't be
just one year older next year -- she'll be ten years older. Another year hence
and she'll be twenty years older. And I'll be getting younger looking all
the time -- at least for another five years ..."

"But how did it end?" I interrupt.

"That's just it ... it didn't end. I promised to see her Tuesday around five
o'clock. That's bad, you know! There were lines in her face which will look
much worse in daylight. I suppose she wants me to fuck her Tuesday. Fucking
in the day-time -- you don't do it with a cunt like
that. Especially in a hotel like that. I'd rather do it on my night off ...
but Tuesday's not my night off. And that's not all. I promised her a letter
in the meantime. How am I going to write her a letter now? I haven't
anything to say ... Shit! If only she were ten years younger. Do you think I
should go with her ... to Borneo or wherever it is she wants to take me?
What would I do with a rich cunt like that on my hands? I don't know how to
shoot. I am afraid of guns and all that sort of thing. Besides, she'll be
wanting me to fuck her night and day ... nothing but hunting and fucking
all the time ... I can't do it!"

"Maybe it won't be so bad as you think. She'll buy you ties and all sorts of
things ..."

"Maybe you'll come along with us, eh? I told her all about you ..."

"Did you tell her I was poor? Did you tell her I needed things?"

"I told her everything. Shit, everything would be fine, if she were just a
few years younger. She said she was turning forty. That means fifty or
sixty. It's like fucking your own mother ... you can't do it ... it's
impossible."

"But she must have had some attractiveness ... you were kissing her breasts,
you said."

"Kissing her breasts -- what's that? Besides it was dark, I'm telling you."

Putting on his pants a button falls off. "Look at that, will you. It's
falling apart, the god-damned suit. I've worn it for seven years now ... I
never paid for it either. It was a good suit once, but it stinks now. And
that cunt would buy me suits too, all I wanted most likely. But that's what
I don't like, having a woman shell out for me. I never did that in my life.
That's <i>your</i> idea. I'd rather live alone. Shit, this is a good room,
isn't it? What's wrong with it? It's a damned sight better than her room,
isn't it? I don't like her fine hotel. I'm against hotels like that. I told
her so. She said she didn't care where she lived ... said she'd come and
live with me if I wanted her to. Can you picture her moving in here with her
big trunks and her hat-boxes and all that crap she drags around with her?
She has too many things -- too many dresses and bottles and all that. It's
like a clinic, her room. If she gets a little scratch on her finger it's
serious.

And then she has to be massaged and her hair has to be waved and she mustn't
eat this and she mustn't eat that. Listen, Joe, she'd be all right if she
were just a little younger. You can forgive a young cunt anything. A young
cunt doesn't have to have any brains. They're better without brains. But an
old cunt, even if she's brilliant, even if she's the most charming woman in
the world, nothing makes any difference. A young cunt is an investment; an
old cunt is a dead loss. All they can do for you is buy you things. But that
doesn't put meat on their arms or juice between the legs. She isn't bad,
Irene. In fact, I think you'd like her. With you it's different. You don't
have to fuck her. You can afford to like her. Maybe you wouldn't like all
those dresses and the bottles and what not, but you could be tolerant. She
wouldn't bore you, that I can tell you. She's even interesting, I might say.
But she's withered. Her breasts are all right yet -- but her arms! I told her
I'd bring you around some day. I talked a lot about you ... I didn't know
what to say to her. Maybe you'd like her, especially when she's dressed. I
don't know ..."

"Listen, she's rich, you say? I'll like her! I don't care how old she is, so
long as she's not a hag ..."

"She's not a hag! What are you talking about? She's charming, I tell you.
She talks well. She looks well too ... only her arms ..."

"All right, if that's how it is, <i>I'll</i> fuck her -- if you don't want
to. Tell her that. Be subtle about it, though. With a woman like that you've
got to do things slowly. You bring me around and let things work out for
themselves. Praise the shit out of me. Act jealous like ... Shit, maybe we'll
fuck her together ... and we'll go places and we'll eat together ... and
we'll drive and hunt and wear nice things. If she wants to go to Borneo let
her take us along. I don't know how to shoot either, but that doesn't matter.
She doesn't care about that either. She just wants to be fucked that's all.
You're talking about her arms all the time. You don't have to look at her
arms all the time, do you? Look at this bedspread! Look at the mirror! Do you
call this living? Do you want to go on being delicate and live like a louse
all your life? You can't even pay your hotel bill ... and you've got a job
too. This is no way to live. I don't care if she's seventy years old -- it's
better than this ..."

"Listen, Joe, you fuck her for me ... then everything'll be fine. Maybe
I'll fuck her once in a while too ... on my night off. It's four days now
since I've had a good shit. There's something sticking to me, like grapes ..."

"You've got the piles, that's what."

"My hair's falling out too ... and I ought to see the dentist. I feel as
though I were falling apart. I told her what a good guy you are ... You'll
do things for me, eh? You're not too delicate, eh? If we go to Borneo I
won't have haemorrhoids any more. Maybe I'll develop something else ...
something worse ... fever perhaps ... or cholera. Shit, it is better to die
of a good disease like that than to piss your life away on a newspaper with
grapes up your ass and buttons falling off your pants. I'd like to be rich,
even if it were only for a week, and then go to a hospital with a good
disease, a fatal one, and have flowers in the room and nurses dancing
around and telegrams coming. They take good care of you if you're rich. They
wash you with cotton batting and they comb your hair for you. Shit, I know
all that. Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all
my life .. . maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheel-chair. But
then I'd be taken care of just the same ... even if I had no more money. If
you're an invalid -- a <i>real</i> one -- they don't let you starve. And you get
a clean bed to lie in ... and they change the towels every day. This way
nobody gives a fuck about you, especially if you have a job. They think a
man should be happy if he's got a job. What would you rather do -- be a
cripple all your life, or have a job ... or marry a rich cunt? You'd rather
marry a rich cunt, I can see that. You only think about food. But supposing
you married her and then you couldn't get a hard-on any more -- that happens
sometimes -- what would you do then? You'd be at her mercy. You'd have to eat
out of her hand, like a little poodle dog. You'd like that, would you? Or
maybe you don't think of those things? <i>I think of everything.</i> I
think of the suits I'd pick out and the places I'd like to go to, but I also
think of the other thing. That's the important thing. What good are the
fancy ties and the fine suits if you can't get a hard-on any more? You
couldn't even betray her -- because she'd be on your heels all the time. No,
the best thing would be to marry her and then get a disease right away. Only
not syphilis. Cholera, let's say, or yellow fever. So that if a miracle did
happen and your life was spared you'd be a cripple for the rest of your
days. Then you wouldn't have to worry about fucking her any more, and you
wouldn't have to worry about the rent either. She'd probably buy you a fine
wheel-chair with rubber tires and all sorts of levers and what not. You
might even be able to use your hands -- I mean enough to be able to write. Or
you could have a secretary, for that matter. That's it -- that's the best
solution for a writer. What does a guy want with his arms and legs? He
doesn't need arms and legs to write with. He needs security ... peace ...
protection. All those heroes who parade in wheel-chairs -- it's too bad
they're not writers. If you could only be sure, when you go off to war,
that you'd have only your legs blown off ... if you could be sure of that
I'd say let's have a war tomorrow. I wouldn't give a fuck about the
medals -- they could keep the medals. All I'd want is a good wheel-chair and
three meals a day. Then I'd give them something to read, those pricks!"

The following day, at one-thirty, I call on Van Norden. It's his day off, or
rather his night off. He has left word with Carl that I am to help him move
today.

I find him in a state of unusual depression. He hasn't slept a wink all
night, he tells me. There's something on his mind, something that's eating
him up. It isn't long before I discover what it is; he's been waiting
impatiently for me to arrive in order to spill it.

"That guy," he begins, meaning Carl, "that guy's an artist. He described
every detail minutely. He told it to me with such accuracy that I know it's
all a god-damned lie ... but I can't dismiss it from my mind. You know how
my minds works!"

He interrupts himself to inquire if Carl has told me the whole story. There
isn't the least suspicion in his mind that Carl may have told me one thing
and him another. He seems to think that the story was invented expressly to
torture him. He doesn't seem to mind so much that it's a
fabrication. It's the "images," as he says, which Carl left in his mind,
that get him. The images are real, even if the whole story is false. And
besides, the fact that there actually is a rich cunt on the scene and that
Carl actually paid her a visit, that's undeniable. What actually happened is
secondary; he takes it for granted that Carl put the boots to her. But what
drives him desperate is the thought that what Carl has described to him
might have been <i>possible.</i>

"It's just like that guy," he says, "to tell me he put it to her six or
seven times. I know that's a lot of shit and I don't mind that so much, but
when he tells me that she hired a carriage and drove him out to the Bois and
that they used the husband's fur-coat for a blanket, that's too much. I
suppose he told you about the chauffeur waiting respectfully ... and listen,
did he tell you how the engine purred all the time? Jesus, he built that up
wonderfully. It's just like him to think of a detail like that ... it's one
of those little details which makes a thing psychologically real ... you
can't get it out of your head afterwards. And he tells it to me so smoothly,
so naturally ... I wonder, did he think it up in advance or did it just pop
out of his head like that, spontaneously? He's such a cute little liar you
can't walk away from him ... it's like he's writing you a letter, one of
those flower-pots that he makes overnight. I don't understand how a guy can
write such letters ... I don't get the mentality behind it ... it's a form a
masturbation ... what do you think?"

But before I have an opportunity to venture an opinion, or even to laugh in
his face, Van Norden goes on with his monologue.

"Listen, I suppose he told you everything ... did he tell you how he stood
on the balcony in the moonlight and kissed her? That sounds banal when you
repeat it, but the way that guy describes it ... I can just see the little
prick standing there with the woman in his arms and already he's writing
another letter to her, another flower-pot about the roof-tops and all that
crap he steals from his French authors. That guy never says a thing that's
original, I found that out. You have to get a clue like ... find out whom
he's been reading lately ... and it's hard to do that because he's so damned
secretive. Listen, if I didn't know that you went there with him, I wouldn't
believe that the woman existed. A guy like that could write letters to
himself. And yet he's lucky ... he's so damned tiny, so frail, so romantic-looking,
that women fall for him now and then ... they sort of adopt him ... they feel
sorry for him, I guess. And some cunts like to receive flower-pots ... it
makes them feel important ... But this woman's an intelligent woman, so he
says. You ought to know, you've seen her letters. What do you suppose a woman
like that saw in him? I can understand her falling for the letters ... but
how do you suppose she felt when she <i>saw</i> him?

"But listen, all that's beside the point. What I'm getting at is the way he
tells it to me. You know how he embroiders things ... well, after that scene
on the balcony -- he gives me that like an hors d'oeuvre, you know -- after
that, so he says, they went inside and he unbuttoned her pajamas. What are
you smiling for? Was he shitting me about that?"

"No, no! You're giving it to me exactly as he told me. Go ahead ..."

"After that" -- here Van Norden has to smile himself -- "after that, mind you,
he tells me how she sat in the chair with her legs up ... not a stitch on
... and he's sitting on the floor looking up at her, telling her how
beautiful she looks ... did he tell you that she looked like a Matisse ...
Wait a minute ... I'd like to remember exactly what he said. He had some
cute little phrase there about an odalisque ... what the hell's an
odalisque anyway? He said it in French, that's why it's hard to remember the
fucking thing ... but it sounded good. It sounded just like the sort of
thing he might say. And she probably thought it was original with him ... I
suppose she thinks he's a poet or something. But listen, all this is nothing
... I make allowance for his imagination. It's what happened after that
that drives me crazy. All night long I've been tossing about, playing with
these images he left in my mind. I can't get it out of my head. It sounds so
real to me that if it didn't happen I could strangle the bastard. A guy has
no right to invent things like that. Or else he's diseased ...

"What I'm getting at is that moment when, he says, he got down on his knees
and with those two skinny fingers of his he spread her cunt open. You
remember that? He says she was sitting there with her legs dangling over the
arms of the chair and suddenly, he says, he got an inspiration. This was
after he had given her a couple of lays already ... after he had made that
little spiel about Matisse. He gets down on his knees -- <i>get this! -- </i>and
with his two fingers ... just the tips of them, mind you ... he opens the
little petals ... <i>squish-squish ...</i> just like that. A sticky little
sound ... almost inaudible. <i>Squish-squish! </i>Jesus, I've been hearing
it all night long! And then he says -- as if that weren't enough for me -- then
he tells me he buried his head in her muff. And when he did that, so help me
Christ, if she didn't swing her legs around his neck and lock him there.
<i>That finished me!</i> Imagine it! Imagine a fine, sensitive woman like
that swinging her legs around <i>his neck\</i> There's something poisonous
about it. It's so fantastic that it sounds convincing. If he had only told
me about the champagne and the ride in the Bois and even that scene on the
balcony I could have dismissed it. But this thing is so incredible that it
doesn't sound like a lie, any more. I can't believe that he ever read
anything like that anywhere, and I can't see what could have put the idea
into his head unless there was some truth in it. With a little prick like
that, you know, anything can happen. He may not have fucked her at all, but
she may have let him diddle her ... you never know with these rich cunts
what they might expect you to do ..."

When he finally pulls himself out of bed and starts to shave the afternoon
is already well advanced. I've finally succeeded in switching his mind to
other things, to the moving principally. The maid comes in to see if he's
ready -- he's supposed to have vacated the room by noon. He's just in the act
of slipping into his trousers. I'm a little surprised that he doesn't
excuse himself, or turn away. Seeing him standing there nonchalantly
buttoning his fly as he gives her orders I begin to titter. "Don't mind
her," he says, throwing her a look of supreme contempt, "she's just a big
sow. Give her a pinch in the ass, if you like. She won't say anything." And
then addressing her, in English, he says: "Come here, you bitch, put your
hand on this!" At this I can't restrain myself any longer. I burst out
laughing, a fit of hysterical laughter which infects the maid also, though
she doesn't know what it's all about.


The maid commences to take down the pictures and photographs, mostly of
himself, which line the walls. <i>"You," </i>he says, jerking his thumb,
"come here! Here's something to remember me by" -- ripping a photograph off
the wall -- "when I go you can wipe your ass with it. See," he says, turning
to me, "she's a dumb bitch. She wouldn't look any more intelligent if I said
it in French." The maid stands there with her mouth open; she is evidently
convinced that he is cracked. "Hey!" he yells at her as if she were hard of
healing. "Hey, <i>you!</i> Yes, <i>you!</i> Like this ... !" and he takes
the photograph, his own photograph, and wipes his ass with it. <i>"Comme
ca!</i> Savvy? You've got to draw pictures for her," he says, thrusting his
lower lip forward in absolute disgust.

He watches her helplessly as she throws his things into the big valises.
"Here, put these in too," he says, handing her a tooth-brush and the
douche-bag. Half of his belongings are lying on the floor. The valises are
crammed full and there is nowhere to put the paintings and the books and the
bottles that are half empty. "Sit down a minute," he says. "We've got plenty
of time. We've got to think this thing out. If you hadn't come around I'd
never have gotten out of here. You see how helpless I am. Don't let me
forget to take the bulbs out ... they belong to me. That waste-basket
belongs to me too. They expect you to live like pigs, these bastards." The
maid has gone downstairs to get some twine ... "Wait till you see ...
she'll charge me for the twine even if it's only three sous. They wouldn't
sew a button on your pants here without charging for it. The lousy, dirty
scroungers!" He takes a bottle of Calvados from the mantelpiece and nods to
me to grab the other. "No use carrying these to the new place. Let's finish
them off now. But don't give <i>her</i> a drink! That bastard, I wouldn't
leave her a piece of toilet-paper. I'd like to ruin the joint before I go.
Listen ... piss on the floor, if you like. I wish I could take a crap in the
bureau drawer." He feels so utterly disgusted with himself and everything
else that he doesn't know what to do by way of venting his feelings. He
walks over to the bed with the bottle in his hand and pulling back the
covers he sprinkles Calvados over the mattress. Not content with that he
digs his heel into the mattress. Unfortunately there's no mud
on his heels. Finally he takes the sheet and cleans his shoes with it.
"That'll give them something to do," he mutters vengefully. Then, taking a
good swig, he throws his head back and gargles his throat, and after he's
gargled it good and proper he spits it out on the mirror. "There, you cheap
bastards! Wipe that off when I go!" He walks back and forth mumbling to
himself. Seeing his torn socks lying on the floor he picks them up and tears
them to bits. The paintings enrage him too. He picks one up -- a portrait of
himself done by some Lesbian he knew and he puts his foot through it. "That
bitch! You know what she had the nerve to ask me? She asked me to turn over
my cunts to her after I was through with them. She never gave me a sou for
writing her up. She thought I honestly admired her work. I wouldn't have
gotten that painting out of her if I hadn't promised to fix her up with that
cunt from Minnesota. She was nuts about her ... used to follow us around
like a dog in heat ... we couldn't get rid of the bitch! She bothered the
life out of me. I got so that I was almost afraid to bring a cunt up here
for fear that she'd bust in on me. I used to creep up here like a burglar
and lock the door behind me as soon as I got inside ... She and that Georgia
cunt -- they drive me nuts. The one is always in heat and the other is always
hungry. I hate fucking a woman who's hungry. It's like you push a feed
inside her and then you push it out again ... Jesus, that reminds me of
something ... where did I put that blue ointment? That's important. Did you
ever have those things? It's worse than having a dose. And I don't know
where I got them from either. I've had so many women up here in the last
week or so I've lost track of them. Funny too, because they all smelled so
fresh. But you know how it is ..."

The maid has piled his things up on the sidewalk. The <i>patron</i> looks on
with a surly air. When everything has been loaded into the taxi there is only
room for one of us inside. As soon as we commence to roll Van Norden gets out
a newspaper and starts bundling up his pots and pans; in the new place all
cooking is strictly forbidden. By the time we reach our destination all his
luggage has come undone; it wouldn't be quite so embarrassing if the madame
had not stuck her head out of the doorway just as we rolled up. "My God!" she
exclaims, "what in the devil is all this? What does it mean?" Van Norden is
so intimidated that he can think of nothing more to say than <i>"C'est moi
... c'est moi, madame!"</i> And turning to me he mumbles savagely: "That
cluck! Did you notice her face? She's going to make it hard for me."

The hotel lies back of a dingy passage and forms a rectangle very much on
the order of a modern penitentiary. The bureau is large and gloomy, despite
the brilliant reflections from the tile walls. There are bird cages hanging
in the windows and little enamel signs everywhere begging the guests in an
obsolete language not to do this and not to forget that. It is almost
immaculately clean but absolutely poverty-stricken, threadbare, woe-begone.
The upholstered chairs are held together with wired thongs;
they remind one unpleasantly of the electric chair. The room he is going to
occupy is on the fifth floor. As we climb the stairs Van Norden informs me
that Maupassant once lived here. And in the same breath he remarks that
there is a peculiar odor in the hall. On the fifth floor a few window-panes
are missing; we stand a moment gazing at the tenants across the court. It
is getting toward dinner