Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, book 1)

I've got to go now—I've got a death message to deliver.»

You understand my personal capabilities and idiosyncrasies. I stood at the corner and wrote it down on the back of an envelope. Seventeen years ago. Here it is. Fuchs was his name. Gerhardt Fuchs of FU Office. Same name as that of the «hundski picker in Glendale where Joey and Tony lived. Used to meet this other Fuchs coming through the cemetery grounds, a sack of dog, bird and cat shit over his shoulder. Brought it to a perfumery house somewhere. Always smelt like a skunk. A foul, evil-minded bugger, one the original tribe of blind Hessians. Fuchs and Kunz—two obscene birds who could be seen drinking every night in Laubscher's Beer Garden near the Fresh Pond Road. Kunz was tubercular, a dermatologist by profession. They talked a bird and skin language over their stinking pots of beer. Ridgewood was their Mecca. Never spoke English unless they had to. Germany was their God and the Kaiser His spokesman. Well, bad 'cess to them! May they die like dirty umlauts— if they haven't already. Funny, though, to find a pair of inseparable twins with names like that. Idiosyncratic, I should say....

3

And now it's Saturday afternoon, the sun's out bright and strong, and I'm sipping some pale Chinese tea in Dr. Wuchee Hachee Tao's garden. He's just handed me a long poem about Mother written on fire-cracker paper. He looks like a superior type of man—not very communicable either. I'd like to ask him something about the original Tao but it so happens that at this point in time, retrogressively speaking, I haven't yet read the Tao Teh Ching. If I had read it I wouldn't need to ask him any questions—nor in all probability would I be sitting in his garden waiting for a woman named Mara. Had I been intelligent enough to have read that most illustrious and most elliptical piece of ancient wisdom I would have been spared a great many woes that befell me and which I am now about to relate.

As I sit in the garden, B. C. 17, I have utterly different thoughts than these. To be quite honest, I can't recall a single one at this moment. I vaguely remember that I didn't like the poem about Mother —it struck me as being sheer crap. And what's more, I didn't like the Chink who wrote it— I remember that very distinctly. I know too that I was getting furious because it was beginning to look like another stand-up. (Had I imbibed a bit of Tao I would not have lost my temper. I would have sat there as contented as a cow, thankful that the sun was out and grateful to be alive.) To-day as I write this there is no sun and no Mara and, though I have not yet become a contented cow, I feel very much alive and at peace with the world.

I hear the telephone ringing inside. A slatfaced Chink, probably a professor of philosophy, tells me in chopstick language that a lady wishes to speak to me on the telephone. It's Mara, and to believe her she's only just getting out of bed. Has a hangover, she informs me. So has Florrie. The two of them are sleeping it off in a hotel nearby. What hotel? She doesn't want to say. Just wait a half hour and she'll doll herself up. I don't feel like waiting another half hour. I'm in a bad mood. First it's the split and then it's a hang-over. And who else is in bed with her, I want to know. Couldn't possibly be a man whose name begins with a C, no? She doesn't like that. She doesn't allow anybody to talk to her that way. Well, I'm talking that way, do you hear? Tell me where you are and I'll be up to see you in a jiffy. If you don't want to say then to hell with you. I'm sick of.... Hello, hello! Mara!

No answer. Well, that must have touched her to the quick. Florrie, that's the little bitch who's responsible for it. Florrie and her itchy fur-lined muff. What are you to think when all you ever hear about a girl is that she can't find a prick big enough to suit her? To look at her you'd think a good fuck would knock the slats out of her. About 103 in her stocking feet. A hundred and three pounds of insatiable flesh. A booze artist to boot. An Irish slut. A sluttee, if you ask me. Putting on a stage accent as if to pretend that she'd once been a Ziegfeld Follies girl.

A week rolls by and no word from Mara. Then out of the blue a telephone call. She sounds depressed. Could I meet her for dinner somewhere, she wants to talk to me about something very important. There's a gravity in her voice which I haven't detected before.

In the Village, as I'm hurrying to keep the appointment, who should I run into but Kronski. I try to wave him off but it's no go.

«What's the great hurry?» he asks with that bland, sardonic grin he always summons at the wrong moment.

I explain to him that I have a date.

«Are you going to eat?»

«Yes, I'm going to eat, but alone,» I say pointedly—

«Oh no you're not, Mister Miller. You need company, I can see that. You're not in such fine fettle to-day.... You look worried. It's not a woman, I hope?»

«Listen, Kronski, I'm going to meet somebody and I don't want you around.»

«Now, Mister Miller, how can you talk that way to an old friend? I insist on accompanying you. I'm going to buy the meal—you can't resist that, can you?»

I laughed in spite of myself. «All right, shit, tag along then. Maybe I'll need your help. You're no good to me except in a pinch. Listen, don't start any funny work. I'm going to introduce you to the woman I'm in love with. She probably won't like your looks, but I want you to meet her anyway. Some day I'll marry her and, since I can't seem to get rid of you, she might as well begin to tolerate you now as later. I have a hunch you won't like her.» «This sounds very serious, Mister Miller. I'll have to take steps to protect you.»

«If you start meddling I'll crown you,» I answered, laughing savagely. «About this person I'm in dead earnest. You never saw me that way before, did you? You can't believe it, eh? Well, just watch me. Tell you how earnest I am.... if you get in my way I'll murder you in cold blood.»

To my surprise Mara was already at the restaurant. She had chosen a lonely table in a dark corner. «Mara,» I said, «this is an old friend, Dr. Kronski. He insisted on coming along. I hope you don't mind.» To my astonishment she greeted him cordially. As for, Kronski, the moment he laid eyes on her he dropped his leer and banter. Even more impressive was his silence. Usually, when I presented him to a female, he became garrulous and made a sort of fluttering noise with his invisible wings.

Mara too was unusually calm; her voice sounded soothing and hypnotic.

We had scarcely given the order and exchanged a few polite words when Kronski, looking at Mara steadily and appealingly, said: «Something has happened, something tragic, it seems to me. If you'd rather have me go I'll leave right now. To tell the truth, I'd prefer to stay. Perhaps I can be of help. I'm a friend of this guy and I'd like to be a friend of yours. I mean it sincerely.»

Rather touching, this. Mara, visibly moved, responded warmly.

«By all means stay,» she said, extending her hand cross the table in token of trust and confidence. «You make it easier for me to talk being here. I've heard a lot about you, but I don't think your friend did you justice,» and she looked up at me reprovingly, then smiled warmly.

«No,» said I quickly, «it's true I never do give an honest picture of him.» I turned to him. «You know, Kronski, you have about the most unlovely character imaginable and yet...»

«Come, come,» he said, making a wry grimace, «don't begin that Dostoievski line with me. I'm your evil genius, you were going to say. Yes, I do have some queer diabolical influence over you, but I'm not confused about you as you are about me. I sincerely like you. I'd do anything you asked if I thought you meant it—even if it brought harm to some one I dearly loved. I put you above every one I know, why I can't say, because you certainly don't deserve it. Right now I'll confess I feel sad. I see that you love each other and I think you're meant for each other, but....»

«You're thinking that it won't be so hot for Mara, that's it, eh?»»

«I can't say yet,» he said, with alarming seriousness. «I see only this, that you've both met your match.»

«So you think I'd really be worthy of him?» said Mara very humbly.

I looked at her in amazement. I never suspected that she could say a thing like that to a stranger.

Her words fired Kronski. «Worthy of him?» he sneered. «Is he worthy of you? that's the question. What has he ever done to make a woman feel worthy of him? He hasn't begun to function yet—he's in a torpor. If I were you I wouldn't put an ounce of faith in him. He isn't even a good friend, let alone a lover or a husband. Poor Mara, don't worry your head about such things. Make him do something for you, spur him on, drive him nuts if you have to, but make him open up! If I were to give you an