Plexus (81 page)

“We have not yet decided the question of the existence of God.…”

It is at this point I always enter. I'm on my own time now. God's time, in other words. Which is always “for the time being.” To hear me you would think I were a member of the Holy Synod—the Holy Philharmonic Synod. It isn't necessary for me to tune in: I've been in tune since the dawn of time. Utter clarity is what marks my performance. I am of the order whose purpose is not to teach the world a lesson but to explain that school is over.

The comrades are relaxed and at ease. No bomb will go off until I give the order. On my right is Dostoevski; on my left the Emperor Anathema. Every member of the group has distinguished himself in some spectacular manner. I am the only one “without portfolio.” I am the
Uitlander;
I hail from “the fringe,” that is to say, from the trouble-bubble cauldron.

“Comrades, it is said that a problem confronts us.…” (I always begin with this stock phrase.) I look about me, calm, self-possessed, before launching into my
plaidoyer
. “Comrades, let us rivet our most concentrated attention for a moment on that wholly ecumenical question——”

“Which is?”
barks the Emperor Anathema.

“Which is nothing less than this: If there were no God, would we be here?”

Above the cries of
Rot!
and
Rubbish!
I follow with ease the sound of my own voice intoning the sacred texts buried in my heart. I am at ease because I have nothing to prove. I have only to recite what I learned by rote in off moments. That we are together and privileged to discuss the existence of God, this in itself is conclusive evidence for me
that we are basking in the sunshine of His presence. I do not speak “as if” He were present, I speak “because” He is present. I am back in that eternal sanctuary where the the word “food” always comes up. I am back because of that.

“And you want to eat?”

I address the comrades passionately now. “Why not?” I begin. “Do we insult our Maker by eating what He has provided for us? Do you think He will vanish because we fill our bellies? Eat, I beg you. Eat heartily! The Lord our God has all time in which to reveal Himself. You pretend that you wish to decide the matter of His existence. Useless, dear comrades, it was decided long ago, before there even was a world. Reason alone informs us that if there be a problem there must be something real which brings it to birth. It is not for us to decide whether or not God exists, it is for God to say whether or not
we
exist” (
Dog!
Have you anything to say?” I shouted in the Emperor Anathema's ear.) “Whether to eat or not before deciding the issue, is
that
, I ask you, a metaphysical question? Does a hungry man debate whether he is to eat or not? We are all famished: we hunger and thirst for that which gave us life, else we would not be assembled here. To imagine that by giving a mere Yes or No the grand problem will be settled for eternity is sheer madness. We have not.…” (I paused and turned to the one on my right. “And you, Fyodor Mihailovich, have you nothing to say?) We have not come together to settle an absurd problem. We are here, comrades, because outside this room,
in the world
, as they call it, there is no place in which to mention the Holy Name. We are the chosen ones, and we are united ecumenically.
Does God wish to see children suffer?
Such a question may be asked here.
Is evil necessary?
That too may be asked. It may also be asked whether we have the right to expect a Paradise here and now, or whether eternality is preferable to immortality. We may even debate whether Our Lord Jesus Christ is of our divine nature
only or of two consubstantially harmonious natures, human and divine. We have all suffered more than is usual for mortal beings to endure. We have all achieved an appreciable degree of emancipation. Some of you have revealed the depths of the human soul in a manner and to a degree never before heard of. We are all living outside our time, the forerunners of a new era, of a new order of mankind. We know that nothing is to be hoped for on the present world level. The end of historical man is upon us. The future will be in terms of eternity, and of freedom, and of love. The resurrection of man will be ushered in with our aid; the dead will rise from their graves clothed in radiant flesh and sinew, and we shall have communion, real everlasting communion, with all who once were: with those who made history and with those who had no history. Instead of myth and fable we shall have everlasting reality. All that now passes for science will fall away; there will be no need to search for the clue to reality because all will be real and durable, naked to the eye of the soul, transparent as the waters of Shiloh. Eat, I beg you, and drink to your heart's content. Taboos are not of God's making. Nor murder and lust. Nor jealousy and envy. Though we are assembled here as men, we are bound through the divine spirit. When we take leave of one another we shall return to the world of chaos, to the realm of space which no amount of activity can exhaust. We are not of this world, nor are we yet of the world to come, except in thought and spirit. Our place is on the threshold of eternity; our function is that of prime movers. It is our
privilege
to be crucified in the name of freedom. We shall water our graves with our own blood. No task can be too great for us to assume. We are the true revolutionaries since we do not baptize with the blood of others but with our own blood, freely shed. We shall create no new covenants, impose no new laws, establish no new government. We shall permit the dead to bury the dead. The quick and the dead will soon be separated. Life eternal is rushing back to fill the
empty cup of sorrow. Man will rise from his bed of ignorance and suffering with a song on his lips. He will stand forth in all the radiance of his godhood. Murder in every form will disappear forever.
For the time being.…”

The moment this inscrutable phrase rose to my lips the inner music, the concordance, ceased. I was back in double rhythm again, aware of what I was doing, analyzing my thoughts, my motives, my deeds. I could hear Dostoevski speaking, but I was no longer there with him, I was getting only the overtones. What's more, I could shut him off whenever I pleased. I was no longer running in that parallel timeless time. Now the world was indeed empty, drab, woebegone. Chaos and cruelty ran hand in hand. I was as grotesque and ridiculous now as those two lost sisters who were presumably running through the Village with puppets in their arms.

By the time night falls, and I start to trek it back, an overpowering loneliness has gripped me. It does not surprise me in the least to find, on returning to the room, a telephone message from Mona saying that her dear “friend” is ill and that she must stay with her the night. Tomorrow it will be another story, and the day after another.

Everything is happening to ‘Stasia at once. One day she is ordered to move because she talks too loudly in her sleep; another day, in another room, she is visited by a ghost and forced to flee in the night. On another occasion a drunkard attempts to rape her. Or else she is grilled by a plain-clothes man at three in the morning. It is inevitable that she should think of herself as a marked woman. She takes to sleeping in the daytime and roaming the streets by night; she passes long hours at the cafeteria which never closes, writing her poems on the marble-topped table, a sandwich in her hand and a plate of untouched food beside her. Some days she is the Slav, speaking with a genuine Slavic accent: other days she is the boy-girl from Montana's snowy peaks, the nymph who must
straddle a horse, even if only in Central Park. Her talk becomes more and more incoherent, and she knows it, but in Russian, as she always says it, “nothing matters.” At times she refuses to use the toilet—insists on doing her little jobs in the chamber pot, which of course she forgets to empty. As for the portrait of Mona which she had begun, it now resembles the work of a maniac. (It is Mona herself who confesses this.) She is almost beside herself, Mona. Her friend is deteriorating under her own eyes. But it will pass. All will be well again, provided she stands by her faithfully, nurses her, soothes her tortured spirit, wipes her ass, if need be. But she must never allow her to feel that she is deserted. What matter, she asks, if she has to remain three or four nights a week with her friend? Is not Anastasia the all-in-all?

“You trust me, don't you, Val?”

I nod a silent assent. (It's not an “ecumenical” question.)

When the tune switches, when I learn from her own lips that it was not Anastasia she spent the night with but her own mother—mothers too get ill—I know what any idiot would have known long before, viz., that there's something rotten in Denmark.

What harm, I ask myself, would there be in talking to her mother—over the telephone? None whatever. The truth is always enlightening.

So, impersonating the lumber king, I pick up the receiver and, amazed that it
is
a mother speaking to me, I inquire in the most casual tone of voice if Mona is there, if so, I would like to talk to her.

She is not there. Very definitely not.

“Have you seen her lately?” (Still the noncommittal gentleman inquiring after a lady fair.)

Not a sign of her in months. The poor woman sounds distressed. She forgets herself to the extent of asking me, a perfect stranger, if her daughter could possibly be dead.
She virtually implores me to inform her should I by chance get wind of her daughter's whereabouts.

“But why don't you write to her husband?”

“Her husband?”

There follows a prolonged silence in which nothing registers except the ocean's deep hum. Then, in a weak, toneless voice, as if addressing blank space, comes this: “So she really did get married?”

“Why certainly she's married. I know her husband well.…”

“Excuse me,” comes the far-off voice, followed by the click of the receiver being hung up.

I allow several nights to pass before broaching the subject to the guilty one. I wait until we are in bed, the lights out. Then I nudge her gently.

“What is it? What are you poking me for?”

“I was talking to your mother yesterday.”

No answer.

“Yes, and we had quite a long conversation.…”

Still no answer.

“The funny thing is, she says she hasn't seen you for ages. She thinks maybe you're dead.”

How much longer can she hold out? I wonder. Just as I am about to let out another mouthful I feel her spring to a sitting position. Then comes one of those drawn-out, uncontrollable fits, of laughter, the sort that makes me shudder inwardly. Between spasms she blurts out: “
My mother!
Ho ho! You were talking to my mother! Hah, hah, hah! It's too good, just too good for words. Hee, hee, hee! Val, you poor sap, my mother is dead. I have no mother. Ho ho ho!”

“Calm yourself!” I beg her.

But she can't stop laughing. It's the funniest, the craziest thing she's ever heard.

“Listen, didn't you tell me you stayed with her the other night, that she was very ill? Was it your mother or wasn't it?”

Peals of laughter.

“Maybe it was your stepmother then?”

“You mean my aunt.”

“Your aunt then, if that's who your mother is.” More laughter.

“It couldn't have been my aunt because she knows I'm married to you. It was probably a neighbor. Or my sister maybe. It would be like her to talk that way.”

“But why would they want to deceive me?”

“Because you were a stranger. If you had said you were my husband, instead of impersonating someone else, they might have told you the truth.”

“It didn't sound to me as if your aunt—or your sister, as you say—were putting it on. It sounded thoroughly genuine.”

“You don't know them.”

“Damn it all, then maybe it's time I got acquainted with them.”

Suddenly she looked serious, very serious.

“Yes,” I continued, “I've a good notion to run over there one evening and introduce myself.”

She was angry now. “If you ever do a thing like that, Val, I'll never speak to you again. I'll run away, that's what I'll do.”

“You mean that you don't ever want me to meet your folks?”

“Exactly. Never!”

“But that's childish and unreasonable. Even if you did tell me a few lies about your family.…”

“I've never admitted anything of the kind,” she broke in.

“Come, come, don't talk like that. You know damned well that that's the only reason why you don't want me to meet them.” I allowed a significant pause to intervene, then said: “Or maybe you fear that I
will
find your real mother.…”

She was angrier than ever now but the word mother got her to laughing again.

“You won't believe me, will you? Very well, one day I'll take you there myself. I promise you.”

“That wouldn't do any good. I know you too damned well. The stage would be all set for me. No sir, if there's any going I go alone.”

“Val, I warn you … if you dare do that…”

I interrupted her. “If I ever do it you won't know about it.”

“So much the worse,” she answered. “You could never do that without my hearing about it sooner or later.”

She was pacing up and down now, puffing nervously at the cigarette which dangled from her lips. She was growing frantic, it seemed to me.

“Look here,” I said finally, “forget about it. I'll.…”

“Val, promise me you won't do it. Promise me!”

I was silent a few moments.

She got down on her knees beside me, looked up at me imploringly.

“All right,” I said, as if reluctantly, “I promise.”

I hadn't the slightest intention, of course, of keeping my word. In fact, I was more than ever determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. However, there was no need to hurry. I had the feeling that when the right moment came I would find myself face to face with her mother—and it would be her
real
mother.