Free Moloch: Or, This Gentile World by Henry Miller Page A

overawed.
    Hari Das had dropped in, as he explained to Moloch, simply to pay his respects before going off. He had no apologies to make for his conduct. He saw nothing reprehensible in his tardiness.
    Moloch said nothing about the color line. In his most affable manner he alluded to the importance that was attached to death messages.
    His remarks made little or no impression upon his listener. “In India one takes his time, and when one is already dead, of what use is it to hurry?” said Hari Das. Brushing swiftly over “this Anglo-Saxon absurdity,” he gave free rein to his impressions of Western energy and futility. What, he asked, was the ultimate value of these extravagant sacrifices in the name of speed?
    Prigozi, who had been roughly revising his concepts of the weak-kneed Hindus during the course of this disquisition, thought the moment opportune to introduce a little dynamite. He had been aching to observe the reaction which the word “nigger” would induce. He drew his bow and shot the arrow home.
    The two men looked at Hari Das with that absurd air of vacuity which people display when viewing the fragments of a precious vase which has slipped between their fingers. Moloch was furious, but said nothing. Indeed, it was too late to say anything. Prigozi had said everything that was necessary—and a few things that were unnecessary.
    A tiny throatful of laughter, that had the chink of broken glass, broke from the disdainful lips of Hari Das.
    “In India,” he exclaimed, “I am a problem. In England I am an educated nuisance. If the Americans choose to make a nigger of me, very well—let them! I do not care a damn. My difficulty is an economic one, not an ethnologic one.”
    “Bully!” cried Prigozi, throwing his restraint to the winds.
    A twinkle of amusement, that was also a reproach, flashed in Hari Das’ eyes.
    “Let’s get out of here,” suggested Moloch.
    Prigozi and Hari had taken to behaving like two statesmen who flatter each other assiduously after a prolonged session of profanity and vituperation. There was nothing to be gained by permitting these two to continue. Besides, he was only too familiar with Prigozi’s views. He knew his opinions on everything— from theories of “magic and religion” to birth control and conditioned reflexes. What he wanted was an intellectual debauch with this Nietzschean Oriental.
    “How about going to the Olympic?” said Prigozi. The fact that “Mister Moloch” had the price of a burlesque show in his pocket made him almost certain that this innocent suggestion would be adopted with alacrity.
    “No, no burlesque for me tonight,” said Moloch impatiently. “Here—take this, if you need some coin,” and he thrust a five-spot toward Prigozi.
    Prigozi refused the money, not from reticence, but because he was unwilling to be shunted off in this manner.
    “Come along, then, damn you!” said Moloch, ushering Prigozi out.
    Hari Das had gone ahead and was waiting for them in the street.
    As they emerged from the office, Prigozi mumbled something in Moloch’s ear which caused the latter to voice a vigorous dissent.
    “Well, then,” said Prigozi, unabashed and abandoning his furtive gestures, “how about that secretary of yours? Can’t we manage to seduce her ? She looks as if she’s itching for it.”
    Again Moloch shook his head. “You forget that I’m a married man,” he said facetiously.
    Prigozi shrieked. “I always told you you were a god-damned hypocrite. Mister Moloch!”
    Then, as if inspired, he took to dancing. Moloch wheeled slowly as Prigozi gyrated about him, observing the way the other’s fingers drooped and quivered, ever so delicately. He wondered if Prigozi had ever seen Toscanini, or performed a surgical operation.
    A few pedestrians stopped to stare. Hari Das meanwhile leaned against a lamppost and studied the headlines of the Evening Journal . He got a great kick out of the headlines. … He never read what was printed