The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus by Henry Miller

Author:Henry Miller [Miller, Henry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-12-01T08:00:00+00:00

It doesn’t matter, said the Philosopher. In its proper place I…

Here Lotta had to close the book. Karen was laughing, if it could be called that, with such uncontrollable violence that his eyes were popping out of his head. I thought he would throw a fit.

Darling, darling! came Lotta’s anxious voice, registering a concern I hadn’t believed her capable of. Please, darling, calm yourself!

Karen continued to be rocked by spasms which now sounded more like sobs. I got up and thumped him violently on the back. At once the commotion subsided. He looked up at me gratefully. Then he coughed and wheezed and blew his nose vigorously, wiping the tears away with his coat sleeve.

Next time, Henry, use a mallet, he sputtered. Or a sledgehammer.

That I will, I said.

He began to titter again.

Please don’t! begged Lotta. He’s had enough for one evening.

It was indeed a wonderful evening, said Mona. I’m beginning to like it here. And how wonderfully you read, she said, addressing Lotta.

I used to be on the stage, said Lotta modestly.

I thought so, said Mona. So was I once.

Lotta arched her eyebrows. You were? There was a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

Why yes, said Mona, unruffled, I played with the Theatre Guild.

Hear, hear! said Karen, relapsing into his Oxford manner.

What’s so strange about that? I demanded to know. Didn’t you think she had any talent?

Why, Henry, said Karen, clasping my arm, you are a sensitive brute, aren’t you? I was congratulating myself on our good luck. We’ll all take turns reading some night. I was on the stage once myself, you know.

And I was once a trapeze artist, I countered.

Really! This from Lotta and Karen simultaneously.

Didn’t I ever tell you? I thought you knew.

For some strange reason this innocent lie impressed them. If I had said I had been a cabinet minister once it could not have produced as telling an effect. It was amazing how limited was their sense of humor. Naturally I expatiated at length on my virtuosity. Mona chimed in now and then to help me out. They listened as if spellbound.

When I had finished Karen soberly remarked: Among other things, Henry, you’re not a bad story teller. You must tell us some more yarns like that when we’re in the mood.

The next day, as if to make up for the grand splurge, Karen was determined to tackle the roof. It had to be shingled and then coated with tar. And I who could never drive a nail straight was to do the job—under his directions. Fortunately it took some time to find the right ladder, the proper nails, the hammer and saw and a dozen other tools which he thought might come in handy. What followed was straight out of Laurel and Hardy. First of all I insisted on finding a pair of old gloves so as not to get any splinters in my hands. I made it clear as a Euclidian theorem that with splinters in my fingers I would be unable to type and being unable to type would mean no dictaphone work.

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