«What do you mean—has she given you the gate already?»
«No. She told me she loved me... I know, it sounds childish, doesn't it?»
«I wouldn't say that exactly. You might be temporarily deranged, that's all. Everybody acts a bit queer when he falls in love. In your case it's apt to last longer. I wish I didn't have this damned job on my hands—I might listen more feelingly. You couldn't come back a little later, could you? Perhaps we could eat together, yes?»
«All right, I'll come back in an hour or so. Don't run out on me, you bastard, because I haven't a cent on me.»
I blew down the stairs and headed for the park. I was riled. It was silly to get all steamed up before Ulric. Always cool as a cucumber, that guy. How can you make another person understand what is really happening inside you? If I were to break a leg he would drop everything. But if your heart is breaking with joy—well, it's a bit boring, don't you know. Tears are easier to put up with than joy. Joy is destructive: it makes others uncomfortable. «Weep and you weep alone»—what a lie that is! Weep and you will find a million crocodiles to weep with you. The world is forever weeping. The world is drenched in tears. Laughter, that's another thing. Laughter is momentary—it passes. But joy, joy is a kind of ecstatic bleeding, a disgraceful sort of super-contentment which overflows from every pore of your being. You can't make people joyous just by being joyous yourself. Joy has to be generated by oneself: it is or it isn't. Joy is founded on something too profound to be understood and communicated. To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts.
I couldn't remember ever seeing Ulric positively joyous. He could laugh readily enough, a good healthy laugh, too, but when he subsided he was always a bit below par. As for Stanley, the nearest semblance to mirth he could produce was a carbolic acid grin. There wasn't a soul I knew who was really gay inside, or even resilient. My friend Kronski, who was now an interne, would act as though he were alarmed if he found me in an effervescent mood. He spoke of joy and sadness as if they were pathological conditions—opposite poles in the manic-depressive cycle.
When I got back to the studio I found it crowded with friends of his who had arrived unexpectedly. They were what Ulric called fine young blades from the South. They had come up from Virginia and North Carolina in their trim racing cars and they had brought with them a few jugs of peach brandy. I didn't know any of them and I felt a bit uncomfortable at first, but after a drink or two I limbered up and began talking freely. To my amazement they seemed not to understand what I was talking about.
They excused their ignorance in a sly and embarrassing way by saying that they were just common country folk who knew more about horses than books. I wasn't aware of having mentioned any books, but that was their way, as I soon discovered, of telling me off. I was definitely an intellectual, say what I would. And they were very definitely country gentlemen, with boots and spurs. The situation was getting rather tense, despite my efforts to talk their language. And then of a sudden it became ridiculous, owing to a stupid remark about Walt Whitman which one of them had chosen to address to me. I had been exalted for the better part of the day; the enforced promenade had sobered me up somewhat, but with the peach brandy flowing and the conversation all at loose ends I had gradually become exhilarated again. I was in a mood to combat these fine young blades from the South, more particularly because what I had on my chest to get off was being squelched by the senseless hilarity. So when the cultured young gent from Durham tried to cross swords with me about my favorite American writer I was at him hammer and tongs. As usual in such circumstances I overshot the mark.
The place was in an uproar. Apparently they had never seen any one so earnest about an unimportant matter. Their laughter made me furious. I accused them of being a bunch of drunken sots, of being idle sons of bitches, ignorant, prejudiced, the product of good for nothing whore-mongers, et cetera, et cetera. A tall, lanky chap, who later became a famous movie star, rose to his feet and threatened to crack me down. Ulric came to the rescue in his suave, silky way, the cups were filled to the brim and a truce declared. At that moment the bell rang and a good-looking young woman made her way in. She was presented to me as the wife of somebody or other whom the others all seemed to know and to be very solicitous about. I got Ulric to one side to find out what it was all about. «She's got a paralytic husband,» he confided. «Nurses him night and day. Drops in now and then to have a little drink—it's getting too much for her, I guess.»
I stood apart and sized her up. She looked like one of those over-sexed females who, while playing the role of the martyr, manage somehow to get their needs satisfied. She had hardly gotten seated when two other females buzzed in, one of them quite decidedly a trollop, the other just somebody's wife, and rather rusty and shopworn at that. I was hungry as a bear and getting fantastically tight. With the arrival of the women I completely lost my combativeness. I thought of only two things—food and sex. I went to the can and absent-mindedly left the door unlocked. I had backed up a bit because of a slow poisonous hard on which the brandy had induced and, as I stood thus, pecker in hand and aiming at the bowl in a high curve, the door suddenly opened. It was Irene, the paralytic's wife. She made a smothered exclamation and started to close the door, but for some reason, perhaps because I seemed utterly calm and nonchalant, she stood at the door-sill and while I finished my piss, she talked to me as though nothing unusual were happening. «Quite a performance,» she said, as I shook the last few drops out. «Do you always back up that way?» I caught her by the hand and pulled her in, locking the door with the other hand. «No, please don't do that,» she begged, looking thoroughly frightened. «Just one moment,» I whispered, my cock brushing against her dress. I fastened my lips to her red mouth. «Please, please,» she begged, trying to squirm out of my embrace. «You'll disgrace me.» I knew I had to let her go. I worked fast and furiously. «I'll let you go,» I said, «just one more kiss.» With that I backed her against the door and, without even bothering to lift her dress, I stabbed her again and again, shooting a heavy load all over her black silk front.
My absence wasn't even noticed. The Southern boys were clustered around the other two females, doing their best to get them cock-eyed in short order. Ulric asked me slyly if I had seen anything of Irene.
«I think she's gone to the bathroom,» I said.
«How was it?» he said. «Are you still in love?»
I gave him a wry smile.
«Why don't you bring your friend around some night,» he went on. «I can always find a pretext to get Irene over. We can take turns at giving her consolation, what?»
«Listen,» I said, «lend me a dollar, will you? I've got to eat, I'm famished.»
Ulric always had a way of looking bewildered, nonplussed, when you asked him for money. I had to take him short like that or he'd edge out of it in that smooth, irresistible way he had of refusing. «Come on,» I said, taking him by the arm, «this is no time to fumble and stammer.» We went to the hall where he furtively slipped me a bill. Just as we were approaching the door Irene came out of the bathroom. «What, you're not going, are you?» she asked, coming up to me and slipping her arms in ours. «Yes, he's got to hurry off now,» said Ulric, «but he's promised to come back later.» And with this we put our arms around her and smothered her with kisses.
«When am I going to see you again?» said Irene. «I may not be here when you return. I'd like to have a talk with you.»
«Just a talk?» said Ulric.
«Well, you know....» she said, finishing it off with a lascivious laugh.
The laugh got me in the scrotum. I got hold of her again and pushing her into a corner I put my hand on her cunt, which was blazing, and slid my tongue down her throat.