With some effort, having breakfasted all night, we conceived the idea of going to “lunch.” Insel, who was on the point of allowing the air to lift him from the railed-in terrace of the Tuileries and set him down in the Rue de la Paix, appraised by normal standards, although it was just this “beauty of horror” I was sure should be worth such a lot of money to him, looked really terrifying. His being unshaven became a smoke screen. Always his self-illumination cast its own shadow. In shining he dragged an individual darkness into the world. I felt sure that as the thoroughfares refilled we would run less risk of being arrested for disturbing the public peace on the Left Bank.
“My friend we are not dressed for going into town,” I insisted, heading him off in another direction.
“Why?” asked Insel in bewildered politeness. “You look as lovely as you always do.”
With a bizarre instinct for scenic effect the hazard presiding our senseless excursion drove us into the Gare d’Orléans.
In the almost gelatinous gloom of the great hall the enclosure before the Buffet Restaurant, its boundaries set by stifled shrubs, offered a stage for Insel to unroll his increate existence to the fitting applause of a dead echo, the countless scurry of departing feet.
This station, as he entered it, became the anteroom of dissolution, where the only constructions left of a real world were avalanches of newspapers, and even these aligned in a dusty perspective like ghosts of overgrown toys.
The place seemed deserted. There was no one to see Insel lay out hocus-pocus negresses on the table in apologetic sacrifice.
“They were all wrong,” he brooded, as if he were a puritan with an ailing conscience. “I was going in the wrong direction! — I renounce,” he sobbed hurling off the negresses, who, bashed against the dingy windows of the Gare, melted and dripped like black tears into limbo down a morbid adit leading to underground platforms — there to mingle with the inquietude of departure to be borne away on a hearse of the living throbbing along an iron rail which must be a solidified sweep of the Styx.
“The only thing wrong with those negresses was your beating one of them up!”
Insel denied this vehemently, and reproached me. I had, he said, inflamed their rebellion by smiling at them. That was no way to handle negresses.
“What? You can sleep with them, but I can’t smile at them. How do you work that out?”
This muddled Insel, the theme of whose half-conscious theatricals must either be that his beefsteak shared jealous passions with less conclusively slaughtered meat or that prostitutes lay far beyond a patroness’s permissions.
“Colored people are not—,” he began, looking very Simon Legree.
“But Insel in your relationship she is entitled—”
“I only slept with her three times—”
“If she had slept with you half a time I consider she has a right to everything you possess.”
Insel, who had a fanciful ingenuity in extricating himself from any situation he felt to be awkward without very well understanding why, instructed me, “You know nothing of the etiquette of my underworld — its laws. The rights of such women extend only to the level of the tabletop.
“It’s like this — I am sitting at the Dôme — she comes along—”
“She dropped on you,” I corrected— It was fun teasing him. Like tickling a dazed gnome with a spider’s silk.
Ignoring my interruption, he continued, “She may take anything under the table — she can grab a thousand francs from my pocket — it is hers. But to lift anything off the table — ausgeschlossen! — impermissible!”
So exactly the logic on behalf of woman in the normal world that I squeaked, “You haven’t got a thousand francs in your pocket.”
What matter if we were trivial. We must find some excuse for our unending hazy laughter. Speech was an afterthought to that humorous peace as it fused with our incomparable exaltation. It was ridiculous to find ourselves, alone, in well-being so wide there was room for innumerable populations.
Insel harped back to not having beaten the negress.
“Well,” I temporized, relenting, “you thumped her — You did like this,” clinching every nerve in my body I tried to imitate that excruciation which in him took the place of a sense of touch— But my fingers closed on an absence — incipience of all volume, Insel’s volume. “Didn’t you know?”
All he could remember was her stealing my cigarettes.
“Stealing,” I exclaimed, “the waiter told me they support you—.”
“Everybody,” Insel reflected drearily, “thinks I am such an awful maquereau. I only had three meals with them.”
“You don’t have to exonerate yourself,” I said dryly, overcome with compassion. “It’s quite a feat — being a pimp and starving to death.” Then laughing, “Whoever heard of a maquereau without any money!” It made such a gorgeous sound when they were shouting — almost macrusallo. Like crucified mackerel—
“They stole my sheets,” Insel interrupted sternly, “my six white sheets.”
“Six sheets against three meals or three embraces! Whichever way you put it your honor is clear,” I consoled him, “All the same, I shall not call you clochard any more, but macrusallo.”
Insel’s luminous duality peculiar to this one night seemed to be forming a more domestic hallucination, an elfin attempt at flirtation, miraculously coy, which played all to itself against the greater glow and measure of his basic disarray — a tacit assumption of our having mutually renounced an inferior world in spite of his repulsiveness being, as he wailed, greater than I could bear.
I had once, to get a simple opinion, asked my dressmaker to take a look at him.
“Well, do you think he’s mad?” I asked her.
“He looks so funny,” she giggled. “He looks ‘in love.’ ”
She was right, he had the air of being amorous of anything or everything in general which left him so rapt and gentle, or, taking an “inner” view, his astral Venus flowed in his veins. This was why, when he met a woman, Mme Feirlein or any other, he had an approach of continent rape, as if he were persuading her bemused, “See! It must be the more lovely for being already consummate.”
For a moment I wondered if his unstaid mind had re-conceived in some unguessable aspect I assumed for him, its eerie durable passion in general — for myself. But apart from the likelihood of his having no idea as to whom he alternately bewailed and beamed upon, I remembered the only emotion I aroused in creative men was an impulse of “knock-out” (that any intuited opposition of the future stirs in the subconscious) which of course was impossible with this delicate soul swimming so docilely along his astral stream under the thunder and lightnings of his distraction like a confiding duck as I scattered crumbs.
At the same time a worn down record of old-fashioned inflection clattered out of Insel’s head:
“In spite of all—”
A lesson? A suggestion? A refrain to be taken up?
Instantly I knew this to be a touch-word on which some spring must snap, some wheel fly wild. That, as I watched, something horrible, in anguish, was wanting to happen—a dangerous inertia waiting to be acted upon by some external irritant.
Our lake of peace was draining as Insel gathered himself together for some voluntary magnetic onslaught “in spite of all” had swollen on the air—