A writer lived across the street. He had no curtains in his fifth-floor apartment – the writer lived openly. Almost every night, in one of his windows, precisely where his bed stood, a girl appeared – putting on or taking off her clothes. There was a new girl every few days. Some of them, having put on their clothes, left – they didn't stay overnight; the others stayed and didn't leave. In those cases, the alarm-clock rang in the writer's apartment in the morning – the girls had to get up early to get to work (those were the kinds of girls the writer had). The writer wandered around naked, stumbling – half asleep – into furniture. He swore, cursing the girls and their work, feeling happy when they left, and falling asleep he promised never to get involved with them again. By nighttime, though, having had enough sleep, he again called some girl, invited her to come over and hear what new thing he had written. The writer, as you have obviously already understood, had a soft spot for sex. And this fact was plenty clear to the fifth floor residents in the house across the street.
Hotel Embassy, my most recent dwelling, was shut down because of sanitary and security considerations, because of its filth, brawls, robberies, terror and desolation inside. This was conveyed to me over the telephone by a short girl Teresa. «How could you live there, Edward?» the girl Teresa asked me. How could I? Just the way I did – I walked with a knife hidden in my boot. No one ever bothered me. I could live anywhere, no sweat. It's a pity about the Hotel Embassy, and I feel sad about it – I've spent eight months of my life there – pretty good, memorable ones. In the morning, sun flooded through my window. Life is life. And even when it appears to be bad, it's good.
Standing in the rain – it's been raining for three days now – I called my old friend. «Why on earth did you come out in such rain?» he asked, frightened, hearing the thunder in the receiver.
«Big deal!» said I.
«I'm reading a library book here, it's about life in Paris in the 1910's and 1920's, I'm rereading it. Yes, those were the times, nothing like today – doldrums…» He went on groaning in this way about the terrible weather, saying some more old and decrepit words.
I wanted to tell him that ultimately, by the most honest account, he's simply lazy, that his wife is efficient and has protected him from life – tough, hard but also joyful. And this has harmed him a lot. And that though he's been in America for a few years, he still doesn't know the language, doesn't know the people, and that if he continues like that, he'll come off track, won't finish his lap, and his daily work in the arts at home won't help him. Secretly I understood that this has already happened. He's weak, he has no strength to go on. He ought to go into life but he's holding on to his wife's warm skirt and lives in the shell of his apartment. There's a vast world outside and he's scared. It would be good for him if his wife died or left him. He's a gifted man, there's no doubting that, only one has to have strength in addition to being gifted.
Alone I remain – now, there's no one around who started on this road with me. Elena was devoured by a void and nothing, and now my friend is being sucked in by the quagmire. He's become an old asshole.
A dear old hag from the house across is probably happy and delighted – she has something to watch now. A house next to mine collapsed while it was being demolished, so the old woman has her fun and pleasure – she watches how the workers scurry about, how they clear the ruins, she watches the police, the crowds of people, and the firemen.
She's been enjoying this for five days now.
It's a godsend to her. Without it, she was bored – it's true, there was nothing special happening on our street. Then, practically before her eyes, the house fell down.
My house is partially damaged – there's no gas, and some tenants had to be evicted. I'm always accompanied by some natural disasters: in the Hotel Embassy I survived two fires – kept running around with my suitcase full of manuscripts – and now that house collapsed…
Out on the street, I chose the weakest, most pathetic, wretched, and ugly girls, I hunted them out, pursued them, and invited them over to my place. With long noses, liliputians, girls with no breasts at all, those who almost dragged their butts on the ground, girls with bad skin and thin hair, those with gaps in their teeth, with very thin necks, or girls with big bellies and very fat legs – they all have visited me. Some had no hair and wore wigs.
I chose them not only by their wretched looks but also by their peculiar harassed nervousness which distinguished their behavior on the street. Now they plodded along, now they suddenly sped up, almost running, constantly looking back, smiling for no reason, talking to themselves.
I've discovered that these rejects are much more sensual and interesting in sex than ordinary women, and they're vastly more interesting than beautiful women.
These melting candles whose lives appeared to be hardly flickering, turned out to be voluptuous and tireless. The big-bellied girls radiated such lust as would Mother Earth. I wanted to roll into the folds of such a belly and hide from misfortunes under it. And the girls with the anorexic skinny bodies of skeletons (my favorite ones), so skinny that you could easily see and feel your own penis in them – these were burning with the infernal flame.
I've started hunting for freaks because of my own misery. Beautiful women, spoiled by attention, wouldn't fuck me. I had no money to take them to the restaurants and public places that sustained their weak sensuality. That's why I've turned to the pathetic rejects who steal along the streets and who are afraid to look up at people in their self-abasement. Now I don't want to exchange my collection of defected creatures for the harem of beauties. For me, nobody will take the place of the anorexics and lilliputians.
Yearning after a prick, they cling to me like hot plants.
The millionaire's housekeeper, whom I had trusted like myself has left me. That's how it always happens – you never know where it's going to hit you.
Even though I never loved the millionaire's housekeeper, I feel restless, noxious, and hurt. Before this happened, I knew that someone (she) loved me on this earth, and that I had somewhere to go. The millionaire's house was like a club to me, and I – a lonely tramp – had found a teacher and a conversationalist in her. She gave me money and food. In short, the news about her betrayal was bitter to me.
It all happened in California. There she found a peasant like herself. He owns a book store, and the millionaire's housekeeper always had a soft spot for culture – I'm evidence. When I left California after a fight over some silliness, she stayed there and fucked the book store owner. Did he feel that she's totally frigid? Perhaps he too doesn't feel much? Or maybe they're compatible, while she and I weren't. I don't know. Nonetheless, the millionaire's housekeeper is now getting ready to move with her furniture and all her belongings to California. My apartment will become bare. The millionaire's housekeeper will take the furniture, and I'll remain hungry and skeptical of simple, kind girls who are able to walk hand in hand with a gifted man to the end of his entire hard journey, and die with him on the same day.
Though I've cheated on the millionaire's housekeeper an infinite number of times – I did it with anyone I could, even with her friend – I've always carefully hid this, and I haven't told her about it even now. I'm not a spiteful person, and despite all the betrayals, in my own way, spiritually, I was always faithful to her and didn't want to hurt her. I'm sad that the millionaire's housekeeper didn't have enough patience, and so she will remain where she's been: among her semi-provincial friends-forever. And it seems to me that peasant of hers in a checked shirt won't stay with her for long-his face is too oily. And it's possible that the millionaire's housekeeper will sink deep into her marijuana and will remain alone forever. All the women I've been involved with throughout my live have had bad luck.