The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus Read Free

watched her as she trotted back and forth in the soft candle light, passing out the food, a cigarette always glued to her lips, her face wreathed in smiles as she greeted her clients or accepted their orders. Now and then Stasia would take a seat at the table, her back always to the window, elbows on the table, head in hands. Usually she would continue to sit there after the last client had left. Mona would then join her. Judging from the expression on the latter’s face, it was always an animated conversation they were conducting. Sometimes they laughed so heartily they were doubled up. If, in such a mood, one of their favorites attempted to join them, he or she would be brushed off like a bottle fly.
    Now what could these two dear creatures be talking about that was so very, very absorbing? And so excruciatingly humorous? Answer me that and I will write the history of Russia for you in one sitting.
    The moment I suspected they were making ready to leave I would take to my heels. Leisurely and wistfully I’d meander, poking my head into one dive after another, until I came to Sheridan Square. At one corner of the Square, and always lit up like an old-fashioned saloon, was Minnie Douchebag’s hangout. Here I knew the two of them would eventually wind up. All I waited for was to make sure they took their seats. Then a glance at the clock, estimating that in two or three hours one of them at least would be returning to the lair. It was comforting, on casting a last glance in their direction, to observe that they were already the center of solicitous attention. Comforting—what a word!—to know that they would receive the protection of the dear creatures who understood them so well and ever rallied to their support. It was amusing also to reflect, on entering the subway, that with a slight rearrangement of clothing even a Bertillon expert might have difficulty deciding which was boy and which girl. The boys were always ready to die for the girls—and vice versa. Weren’t they all in the same rancid piss-pot to which every pure and decent soul is consigned? Such dearies they were, the whole gang. Darlings, really. The drags they could think up, gracious! Every one of them, the boys particularly, was a born artist. Even those shy little creatures who hid in a corner to chew their nails.
    Was it from contact with this atmosphere in which love and mutual understanding ruled that Stasia evolved the notion that all was not well between Mona and myself? Or was it due to the sledge-hammer blows I delivered in moments of truth and candor?
    You shouldn’t be accusing Mona of deceiving you and lying to you, she says to me one evening. How we happened to be alone I can’t imagine. Possibly she was expecting Mona to appear any moment.
    What would you rather have me accuse her of? I replied, wondering what next.
    Mona’s not a liar, and you know it. She invents, she distorts, she fabricates … because it’s more interesting. She thinks you like her better when she complicates things. She has too much respect for you to really lie to you.
    I made no effort to reply.
    Don’t you know that? she said, her voice rising.
    Frankly, no! said I.
    You mean you swallow all those fantastic tales she hands you?
    If you mean that I regard it all as an innocent little game, no.
    But why should she want to deceive you when she loves you so dearly? You know you mean everything to her. Yes, everything.
    Is that why you’re jealous of me?
    Jealous? I’m outraged that you should treat her as you do, that you should be so blind, so cruel, so…
    I raised my hand. Just what are you getting at? I demanded. What’s the game?
    Game? Game? She drew herself up in the manner of an indignant and thoroughly astounded Czarina. She was utterly unaware that her fly was unbuttoned and her shirt tail hanging out.
    Sit down, I said. Here, have another cigarette.
    She refused to sit down. Insisted on pacing back and forth, back and forth.
    Now which do you prefer