Read Moloch: Or, This Gentile World Online
Authors: Henry Miller
Tags: #Literary, #Romance, #Brooklyn (New York; N.Y.), #Fiction, #General
And there came one of the seven angels which had the seven vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, Come hither; I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters; with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication. So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness.
The Café Royal on Second Avenue is an insignificant paste jewel in the lap of a great whore. Men and women congregate there like bluebottles. If it were a Gentile establishment the waiters would not be so proud of their soiled aprons; they would retire once in a while to shave and bathe. But if the congregation were less like the progeny of the maggot, and the waiters more immaculate, it would not be the Cafe Royal. That is why the great literati of America inhale the aroma of the place with deep drafts, and bury their seed in its rich manure.
Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg said: “It is altogether fitting and proper that we, the living, should do this. …” Without caring a hang what Abraham Lincoln said at Gettysburg, Prigozi and Moloch were met by appointment in this sawdust rendezvous just below the beltline. They were well plastered when they met. Which, too, was altogether fitting and proper. For they had come to dedicate a portion of their grief to the memory of the dead.
Prigozi was sepulchral. His eyes were two tapers burning in a crypt. He spoke in a broken voice that issued from the bowels of the earth. When he laughed (which he did occasionally, to relieve the gloom in which he was smothered) the reverberations sounded like the punctuated squeals of a sow getting her throat slit.
“You’re going mad,” said Moloch.
Prigozi grinned sheepishly from behind his Mazda sockets.
“Listen, Sid, you’ve got to brace up. Do you hear me, you’ve got to brace up!”
A wan smile illumined the cadaverish expression. The man looked as if he wanted to puke up but couldn’t. His brain was working like a dynamo. No matter how much he drank it kept on whirring smoothly, piling up ideas, ideas that would haunt him tomorrow and the next day, and the day after.
At four o’clock that afternoon his wife had died of childbirth. For hours he had stood outside the operating room, absorbing the punishment the doctors were meting out to her. The incessant piercing screams had conveyed better than words that a murder was going on inside.
Behind the massive doors he knew there were cool, muscular men in long white robes mutilating her body. He knew they were working silently, swiftly, with glittering instruments that were swallowed up by her shuddering white body.
A tall young man with spectacles was bending over the inert form of Sarah Prigozi, his blood-soaked fists moving with furious diligence to extricate the twisted mass of flesh imprisoned in the narrow pelvic cradle. The prostrate figure offered no resistance. The screams had given way to a drawn-out moan that rose and fell with insane monotony.
Presently the moaning ceased. It was the end, Prigozi told himself.
It was. The battle was over. The shapeless, battered pulp of flesh fell out. Quietly the nurses gathered up the instruments. They were bathed in a vivid red glow.
Prigozi left the bodies of his loved ones in the hospital to be washed, packed with excelsior, and laid out for a long sleep.
Leaving the hospital he remarked to himself with a strange calm that but a few hours ago he had brought a healthy, budding, live form to them which they had exchanged for two dead ones: a big one, and a little one. The little one didn’t even resemble a corpse…. That, he told himself, was what the practice of obstetrics amounted to!
“I never broke down,” he explained to Moloch, “until I got home and saw the empty flat. Then I cracked. Jesus, I went wild! I wanted to go back and murder the doctors. But all I did was to run out into the street and bellow my lungs out.
He looked around him helplessly with the eyes of a man who can see nothing but the four walls of his cell, and is victimized by the thought that in six hours and twenty-five minutes he will be strapped to a chair and given a dose of embalming fluid.
Moloch started to pour another drink, changed his mind, and placed his hand affectionately on the other’s sleeve.
Prigozi burst out: “Come on, act natural! You can’t do anything. Let’s stay here and talk. Call some of these Jew bastards over, if you like, and pull their beards.” He banged his fists mechanically against the tabletop; his voice grew shrill and then hoarse.
“We’ve got to do something, that’s all there is to it!” He kept banging away with his fists. The knuckles were red and bruised.
His violence attracted the attention of an elderly gentleman with a goatee seated at a distant table. The gentleman left the group he was with and walked over.
He gave Prigozi a scrutinizing look. “My God! What’s happened to you?” he exclaimed.
“Meet Dr. Elfenbein,” said Prigozi in a lifeless tone of voice.
Moloch rose to his feet and glared at the intruder. “You’d better run along … leave us!” he cried.
“He’s all right,” said Prigozi. “He’s a friend of mine. He’s no doctor—he’s a dentist.”
He uttered the words without raising his eyes. He sat humped up, like a sack of potatoes, still banging away with his fists.
Dr. Elfenbein gave the two of them a hasty glance and made a move to retreat. A group of vaudeville artists at the adjoining table were taking it all in. The performance was as good as a rehearsal to them.
Prigozi now rose to his feet unsteadily. He put his arms about Dr. Elfenbein’s shoulders and pushed him gently into a seat.
“Everything’s fine, and we want you to stay and enjoy the funeral party,” he croaked.
“The funeral party?” Dr. Elfenbein tried to get up.
“Sit down!” Moloch shouted. “He says he wants you to stay.”
“Tell him about the two stiffs, Dion. He’s never seen a stiff in his life.... Tell him about the instruments.”
“Sure! Sure!” said Moloch. “If that’ll make you feel any better, Sid.”
Dr. Elfenbein showed plainly his amazement and alarm. Moloch frowned severely. Once more the dentist fastened his eyes upon Prigozi. He looked into a pair of drowning eyes. Big flakes of dandruff rimmed the man’s coat collar. Some mud had caked in his hair.
Prigozi’s glassy eyes stared straight through Dr. Elfenbein, straight through the outer wall of the café. He saw a chiseled epitaph in letters of fire.
Moloch called the waiter and ordered a big spread. Dr. Elfenbein protested that he had no desire for food. Moloch insisted.
“This is Sid’s party and you’ve got to eat with us. After the funeral comes the eats.”
The funeral had not taken place yet, naturally, nevertheless the two of them persisted in referring to it as a thing of the past.
Dr. Elfenbein smiled apprehensively as Moloch buried Prigozi under an avalanche of vile raillery that had to do with Lutheran Cemetery.
“You see, doc,” said Moloch familiarly, realizing that Prigozi was as receptive as a stone monument, “my relatives always insisted on patronizing Lutheran Cemetery because … well, for one thing, it was a custom in the family, and then, too, it wasn’t so expensive. They served wonderful food and drink at the brewery nearby, I remember that distinctly.”
He swallowed some stale Vichy to clear his throat.
“These relatives of mine had a fine comprehension of the meaning of that saying ‘All the labor of man is for his mouth!’ So, when they had wept themselves dry, they ate and drank. I was only a little chap, then, and it was my lot to finish the beer they left in their glasses. It had a flat, brassy taste, but I was too young to be a connoisseur. I licked it up just the same....”
Dr. Elfenbein listened stoically. He felt that he had a lunatic on his hands, if one could judge by his expression.
“After a few drinks the conversation always veered back to the corpse. I must say that they always had a kind word for the dead. ‘Poor old soul,’ someone would say, ‘he’s better off than we are.’ And, as if by the way of proving it, everyone would thereupon take a good swig. And so it went, doc—guzzling and swilling it—until someone would break out in song, one of those dismal, sentimental ditties that the Germans like to sing en masse.”
He started to hum “The German Fifth” … “When we march we don’t stand still…” Then he leaned forward, beaming with pleasure at the recollection of those warm, cozy funeral parties next door to the cemetery, as it were. The doctor’s trim goatee was almost in his mouth. Indeed, the doctor had a vague misapprehension that Moloch might commence to chew his goatee. He was an insane devil, this loquacious goy.
However, Dr. Elfenbein managed to preserve his composure.
“You enjoyed your funerals, then?” he remarked, lost for an appropriate comment.
“Of course, doc! I never could understand why people object to attending funerals. Funerals never depress me. My own, of
course—that’s a different matter. Ho, hum! ‘God giveth, and God taketh away.’ That’s a fair break, ain’t it? Of course it is.”
At this juncture the waiter returned with a tray full of dishes.
“Who’s going to eat all this?” Prigozi exclaimed. He was stupefied by the proportions of the banquet.
“Haven’t I just been explaining the etiquette of the funeral? Shove it down, you’ll feel better. Don’t sit there like a poor rabbi who has neither congregation nor slaughterhouses!”
Dr. Elfenbein gave a start. He disliked such allusions. There was absolutely no need to mention slaughterhouses. He thought Moloch’s mind about as putrid as pork. At the same time he forgot that he had just finished a meal at the other table and fell to—like a priest of the tabernacle.
Moloch maintained a ceaseless flow of talk. His topics were one and all depressing; yet he contrived to infuse a hilarious note. Prigozi acted as though he enjoyed the situation because there was nothing to life anymore but to enjoy oneself.
After a time Dr. Elfenbein, to whom most of the conversation was addressed, found it necessary to register a protest. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. Moloch had just gotten off a string of abusive epithets and had now taken to ranting about the Jews. Dr. Elfenbein had no desire to see a rumpus started.
“My dear man,” he exclaimed, “aren’t these expressions a little too strong?”
“My dear man,” came the mimicking reply, “an editor once said the same thing to me after he had read my manuscript.
” ‘My dear sir,’ I said to him, ‘your words are an insult.
A little too strong?
My dear fellow, we’re not speaking of mustard!’ “
Moloch carried on in this vein. Prigozi pricked up his ears. He was glad the doctor was getting an earful. He loathed these little Jews who tried to put on dignity by cultivating a beard. They ought to get busy and cultivate their intellects.
Just then he caught Moloch’s words.
“Why, doc,” the latter was saying, “if only two people in the United States felt as I do about these bastards there’d be an insurrection. Hang it all, we have no temperament! How can we go on living with these people and remain passive? We ought to
get busy with a razor … slash off a few slices of this juicy respectability. How about it now, doc, how about it?”
Dr. Elfenbein tried making his head wag yes and no at the same time.
“I’m beginning to understand your extravagances. You’re a literary man, I see.”
“Literary! That’s a lousy word to fling at a man.”
Dr. Elfenbein recalled that he had feelings, that those fellings had been insulted—outraged, in fact.
“You might have some consideration,” he said softly, “for the guest you invited to your table.”
Moloch thought this a highly anemic expression of one’s injured feelings. He had been aching for a punch in the jaw. With it all, however, he began to feel sorry for the target of his gibes. He wished he had picked on someone with more guts. What he was after was a free-for-all souffle under the tables, a mouthful of sawdust, and some broken bones. … He wondered whether Prigozi was capable of showing any fight. If he thought it would do him any good he was ready to hand him a wallop.
The situation was saved by the dramatic entrance of a very attractive young lady whom every one seemed eager to recognize or be recognized by. Some got up from their seats and rushed to greet her; others waved and called her by name.
Moloch caught the name, Naomi. A beautiful name, he thought. A beautiful creature, too.
Dispatching her admirers like so many couriers, she came directly over to their table and put her arms around Prigozi’s shoulders.
“Poor fellow,” she murmured—a little ostentatiously, thought Moloch—”what can I say?” Her words of consolation were lost in the clatter of dishes and hubbub created by the actors at the table.
What he caught of her voice sounded ravishing to Moloch. He surveyed her from head to foot. Prigozi was at once eager to introduce the young lady.
“
An old flame
,” he said, and a deep flush spread over his features, intensifying his ugliness. He drew up a chair and begged the girl to sit beside him. They fell into an easy conversation in which Naomi did most of the talking. The other two looked on, content to listen, and thoroughly charmed by her dark voice and vivacious gestures.
When she had expressed all the conventional thoughts which she believed the occasion demanded, she quite suddenly ceased talking. No one knew just what to say. The silence became awkward.
“Perhaps I’m intruding,” she said.
“Oh, no!” the others responded in one voice.
“You two,” said Naomi, like a perfect coquette, “you
l
ook terrible!
”
Simple and commonplace as this remark was, Moloch was instantly flattered. To be included in such a mark of concern was a tribute. He was at a loss to know just how Prigozi took it....
“An old flame”!
Huh! Impossible!
That Naomi was a Jewess was without question, but it was a type he had seldom encountered before; certainly never in this utter loveliness, never with quite such unique blandishments. She was Oriental rather than Jewish, Egyptian rather than Semitic. Quick to idealize her, he pictured her in his mind as an exotic offshoot from the ancient Alexandrian world, a raven-haired waif steeped in the wisdom of the cult of Aphrodite; nurtured in a foreign tongue pregnant with mystery and ardor.
The effect of her charms upon Prigozi was to alter his speech habits. He talked now with a mouthful of marbles. He thought it improved his diction. No one else gained this impression.
Voices were speaking to Prigozi. They had nothing to say about the Bible (which had formed a prominent part in the conversation), or Christian lunatics, or poets like Stanley, who could jabber endlessly about Ecclesiastes. The voices in him were tongues of flame. “It is better to marry than to burn,” they whimpered.
He stole shy glances at Naomi. Her mouth was cherry-ripe, her eyes dark as kohl. Her supple limbs were bursting with vigor. Tremors flew up and down his spine as he thought of Naomi lying beside him, comforting him, weeping for him. … He had
traveled such a distance, in his thoughts, he was disgusted with himself.
Naomi studied the other two as she carried on a tepid conversation with Dr. Elfenbein. The latter’s existence was scarcely noted anymore; he was like a vegetable which one knows is in the garden, but ignores until it is time to pull it up by the roots.
Men came over from time to time, intruding long enough to win her smile, or extract a faint promise. Naomi was like a doe which has fallen into a snare and lies waiting with beating heart for the cymbals to crash and the dogs to bark. The glances she received were so many spears aimed at her heart. She was at a loss how to appease her hungry admirers.
Presently Ptigozi excused himself and hurried away from the table. Moloch followed him. They went down a flight of stairs to the lavatory. Moloch thought he detected Naomi staring at him. Her eyes were imploring him to hasten back—so he thought.
In the lavatory Prigozi turned and looked at his companion with sorrowful, sunken eyes.
He came to the point at once.
“You want her, don’t you?”
Moloch was somewhat taken back.
“Go ahead, take her, but… but don’t tell her in front of me how much you care for her.” His voice was unsteady. “Do you hear?” he repeated, advancing closer. “Don’t tell her in front of me. … I couldn’t stand that.”
Moloch tried to feign disinterest. He spoke of Naomi’s charms as if he were criticizing a piece of marble.
Prigozi was sinister and preemptory.
“You can’t put that over on me, Dion. I don’t want her, understand? You’ve got a chance … go and take her before I change my mind.”
“Change your mind?”
“Listen! I said you had a chance. So you have, but it’s a small one. Remember, in her eyes you’re a goy. Better strike while the iron’s hot.”
“What the hell is he insinuating?” thought Moloch, knowing
that a goy is always five leagues behind when talking to a member of the chosen race.
“Damn it!” he blurted out. “I’ve a good mind to go back in there and take her off under your nose—just to prove to you that I can pull the trick.”
“That’s what I want you to do. You couldn’t find a better girl than Naomi.” Prigozi gave out a deep sigh.
“Look here, Sid, what’s the meaning of all this? What are you up to? There’s something queer about this.”
“Well, what do you make of it?” Prigozi answered readily. “You don’t think
I
want her, do you?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that. What’s eating you? God damn it! Don’t stand there gaping at me!”
Prigozi hesitated. Was it worthwhile making things clear to this goy? In some ways Moloch was just like all the other goyim.
“I want you to get rid of that nigger you’re running around with. Does that satisfy you?” he announced.