Free The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus by Henry Miller Page B

only thing that’s real about her is her make believe. And—her love for you.
    The 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 some one 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 the in the image of a Chinese mandarin, garbed in a Chinese blue jacket, which emphasized the austere, sage-like 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. Fm no longer curious.
    You’re wonderful, the two of you! How could any one 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.