then. It's bestto keep America just like that, always in the background,
a sort ofpicture post card which you look at in a weak moment. Like that,
youimagine it's always there waiting for you, unchanged, unspoiled, a
bigpatriotic open space with cows and sheep and tenderhearted men readyto
bugger everything in sight, man, woman or beast. It doesn't exist,America.
It's a name you give to an abstract idea ....  P.
    aris is likea whore. From a distance she seems ravishing, you can't wait
until youhave her in your arms. And five minutes later you feel empty,
disgustedwith yourself. You feel tricked.
    I returned toParis with money in my pocket _ a few hundred francs, which
Collinshad shoved in my pocket just as I was boarding the train. It was
enoughto pay for a room and at least a week's good rations. It was more
thanI had had in my hands at one time for several years. I felt elated,as
though perhaps a new life was opening before me. I wanted to conserveit too,
so I looked up a cheap hotel over a bakery on the Rue du Chateau,just off
the Rue de Vanves, a place that Eugene had pointed out to meonce. A few
yards away was the bridge that spans the Montparnasse tracks.A familiar
quarter.
    I could havehad a room for a hundred francs a month, a room without any
conveniencesto be sure _ without even a window _ and perhaps I would have
takenit, just to be sure of a place to flop for a while, had it not beenfor
the fact that in order to reach this room I would have been obligedto first
pass through the room of a blind man. The thought of passinghis bed every
night had a most depressing effect upon me. I decidedto look elsewhere. I
went over to the Rue Cels, just behind the cemetery,and I looked at a sort
of rat trap there with balconies running aroundthe courtyard. There were
birdcages suspended from the balcony too,all along the lower tier. A
cheerful sight perhaps, but to me it seemedlike the public ward in a hospital.
The proprietor didn't seem to haveall his wits either. I decided to wait for
the night, to have a goodlook around, and then choose some attractive little
joint in a quietside street.
    At dinnertimeI spent fifteen francs for a meal, just about twice the
amount I hadplanned to allot myself. That made me so wretched that I
wouldn't allowmyself to sit down for a coffee, even despite the fact that it
had begunto drizzle. No. I would walk about a bit and then go quietly to
bed.at a reasonable hour. I was already miserable, trying to husband
myresources this way. I had  never in my life done it i itwasn't in my nature.
    Finally it beganto come down in bucketsful. I was glad. That would give
me the excuseI needed to duck somewhere and stretch my legs out. It was
still tooearly to go to bed. I began to quicken my pace, heading back
towardthe Boulevard Raspail. Suddenly a woman comes up to me and stops
me,right in the pouring rain. She wants to know what time it is. I toldher I
didn't have a watch. And then she bursts out, just like this; "Oh, my good
sir, do you speak English by chance?" I nod my head. It'scoming down in
torrents now. "Perhaps, my dear good man, you would beso kind as to take me
to a cafe. It is raining so and I haven't themoney to sit down anywhere. You
will excuse me, my dear sir, but youhave such a kind face ... I knew you
were English right away. " Andwith this she smiles at me, a strange,
half-demented smile. "Perhapsyou could give me a little advice, dear sir. I
am all alone in the world. . . my God, it is terrible to have no money . .. .
"
    This "dear sir"and"kindsir" and "my good man, " etc., had me on the
verge of hysteria. I feltsorry for her and yet I had to laugh. I did laugh.
I laughed right inher face. And then she laughed too, a weird, high-pitched
laugh, offkey, an altogether unexpected piece of cachinnation. I caught her
bythe arm and we made a bolt for it to the nearest cafe. She was
stillgiggling when we entered the bistro. "My dear good sir, " shebegan again,
"perhaps you think I am not telling you the truth. I ama good girl ... I
come of a good family. Only"_ and here she gave methat wan, broken smile
again _ "only I am so misfortunate as not tohave a place to sit down. " At
this I began to laugh again. I couldn'thelp it _ the phrases she used. the
strange accent, the crazy hat shehad on, that demented smile. . ..
    "Listen. " Iinterrupted, "what nationality are you?"
    "I'm English," she replied. "That is, I was born in Poland, but my
father is Irish."
    "So that makesyou English?"
    "Yes. " she said,and she began to giggle again, sheepishly, and with a
pretense of beingcoy.
    "I suppose youknow a nice little hotel where you could take me? " I said
this, notbecause I had any intention of going with her, but just to spare
herthe usual preliminaries.

    "Oh, my dearsir. " she said, as though I had made the most grievous error,
"I'msure you don't mean that! I'm not that kind of a girl. You were
jokingwith me, I can see that. You're so good. . . you have such a kind
face.I would not dare to speak to a Frenchman as I did to you. They
insultyou right away . .. . "
    She went on inthis vein for some time. I wanted to break away from her.
But she didn'twant to be left alone. She was afraid _ her papers were not in
order.Wouldn't I be good enough to walk her to her hotel? Perhaps I
could"lend" her fifteen or twenty francs, to quiet the patron'! Iwalked her
to the hotel where she said she was stopping and I put afifty franc bill in
her hand. Either she was very clever, or very innocent_ it's hard to tell
sometimes _ but, at any rate, she wanted me to waituntil she ran to the
bistro for change. I told her not to bother.And with that she seized my hand
impulsively and raised it to her lips.I was flabbergasted. I felt like
giving her every damned thing I had.That touched me, that crazy little
gesture. I thought to myself, it'sgood to be rich once in a while, just to
get a new thrill like that.Just the same, I didn't lose my head. Fifty
francs' That was quite enoughto squander on a rainy night. As I walked off
she waved to me with thatcrazy little bonnet which she didn't know how to
wear. It was as thoughwe were old playmates. I felt foolish and giddy. "My
dear kind sir ...you have such a gentle face . . . you are so good, etc. " I
felt likea saint.
    When you feelall puffed up inside it isn't so easy to go to bed right
away. You feelas though you ought to atone for such unexpected bursts of
goodness.Passing the "Jungle" I caught a glimpse of the dance floor; women
withbare backs and ropes of pearls choking them _ or so it looked _
werewiggling their beautiful bottoms at me. Walked right up to the bar
andordered a coupe of champagne. When the music stopped, a beautifulblonde _
she looked like a Norwegian _ took a seat right beside me.The place wasn't
as crowded or as gay as it had appeared from outside.There were only a half
dozen couples in the place _ they must have allbeen dancing at once. I
ordered another coupe of champagne inorder not to let my courage dribble away.
    When I got upto dance with the blonde there was no one on the floor but
us. Any othertime I would have been self-conscious.

    but the champagneand the way she clung to me, the dimmed lights and the
solid feelingof security which the few hundred francs gave me. well .... We
had anotherdance together, a sort of private exhibition. and then we fell
intoconversation. She had begun to weep _ that was how it started. I
thoughtpossibly she had had too much to drink, so I pretended not to be
concerned.And meanwhile I was looking around to see if there was any other
timberavailable. But the place was thoroughly deserted.
    The thing todo when you're trapped is to breeze _ at once. If you don't,
you'relost. What retained me, oddly enough, was the thought of paying fora
hat check a second time. One always lets himself in for it becauseof a trifle.
    The reason shewas weeping. I discovered soon enough, was because she had
just buriedher child. She wasn't Norwegian either, but French, and a midwife
toboot. A chic midwife, I must say, even with the tears running down herface.
I asked her if a little drink would help to console her, whereuponshe very
promptly ordered a whisky and tossed it off in the wink ofan eye. "Would you
like another?" I suggested gently. She thought shewould, she felt so rotten,
so terribly dejected. She thought she wouldlike a package of Camels too. "No,
wait a minute. " she said. "I thinkI'd rather have les Pall Mall. " Have
what you like, I thought,but stop weeping, for Christ's sake, it gives me
the willies. I jerkedher to her feet for another dance. On her feet she
seemed to be anotherperson. Maybe grief makes one more lecherous. I don't
know. I murmuredsomething about breaking away. "Where to?" she said eagerly.
"Oh, anywhere.Some quiet place where we can talk. "
    I went to thetoilet and counted the money over again. I hid the hundred
franc notesin my fob pocket and kept a fifty franc note and the loose change
inmy trousers pocket. I went back to the bar determined to talk turkey.
    She made it easierfor me because she herself introduced the subject. She
was in difficulties.It was not only that she had just lost her child, but
her mother washome, ill, very ill, and there was the doctor to pay and
medicine tobe bought, and so on and so forth. I didn't believe a word of it,
ofcourse. And since I had to find a hotel for myself. I suggested thatshe
come along with me and stay the night. A little economy there, Ithought to
myself.

    But she wouldn'tdo that. She insisted on going home, said she had an
apartment to herself_ and besides she had to look after her mother. On
reflection I decidedthat it'would be still cheaper sleeping at her place, so
I said yesand let's go immediately. Before going, however, I decided it was
bestto let her know just how I stood, so that there wouldn't be any
squawkingat the last minute. I thought she was going to faint when I told
herhow much I had in my pocket. "The likes of it! " she said. Highly
insultedshe was. I thought there would be a scene .... Undaunted, however,
Istood my ground. "Very well, then, I'll leave you, " I said
quietly."Perhaps I've made a mistake. "
    "I should sayyou have! " she exclaimed, but clutching me by the sleeve
at the sametime. "Ecoute, cheri.. . sois raisonnable! " When I heard thatall
my confidence was restored. I knew that it would be merely a questionof
promising her a little extra and everything would be . K. "All right"I said
wearily, " be nice to you, you'll see. "
    "You were lyingto me, then? " she said.
    "Yes, " I smiled,"I was just lying . . . . "
    Before I hadeven put my hat on she had hailed a cab. I heard her give
the Boulevardde Clichy for an address. That was more than the price of room,
I thoughtto myself. Oh well, there was time yet . . . we'd see. I don't
knowhow it started any more but soon she was raving to me about Henry
Bordeaux.I have yet to meet a whore who doesn't know of Henry Bordeaux! But
thisone was genuinely inspired; her language was beautiful now, so tender,so
discerning, that I was debating how much to give her. It seemed tome that I
had heard her say _ " quand il n'y aura plus de temps." It sounded like that,
anyway. In the state I was in, a phraselike that was worth a hundred francs.
I wondered if it was her own orif she had pulled it from Henry Bordeaux.
Little matter. It was justthe right phrase with which to roll up to the foot
of Montmartre. "Goodevening, mother, " I was saying to myself, "daughter and
I will lookafter you _ quand il n'y aura plus de temps' " She was goingto
show me her diploma, too, I remembered that.
    She was all aflutter.once the door had closed behind us. Distracted.
Wringing her hands andstriking Sarah Bernhardt poses.

    half undressedtoo, and pausing between times to urge me to hurry, to get
undressed,to do this and do that. Finally, when she had stripped down and
waspoking about with a chemise in her hand. searching for her kimono,
Icaught hold of her and gave her a good squeeze. She had a look of anguishon
her face when I released her. "My God! My God! I must go downstairsand have
a look at mother! " she exclaimed. "You can take a bath ifyou like, chsri.
There! Ill be back in a few minutes. " At thedoor I embraced her again. I
was in my underclothes and I had a tremendouserection. Somehow all this
anguish and excitement, all the grief andhistrionics, only whetted my
appetite. Perhaps she was just going downstairsto quiet her maquereau. I had
a feeling that something unusualwas happening, some sort of drama which I
would read about in the mom-ingpaper. I gave the place a quick inspection.
There were two rooms anda bath, not badly furnished. Rather coquettish.
There was her diplomaon the wall _ "first class, " as they all read. And
there was the photographof a child, a little girl with beautiful locks, on
the dresser. I putthe water on for a bath, and then I changed my mind. If
something wereto happen and I were found in the tub ... I didn't like the
idea. Ipaced back and forth, getting more and more uneasy as the minutes
rolledby.
    When she returnedshe was even more upset than before. "She's going to
die . . . she'sgoing to die! " she kept wailing. For a moment I was almost
on the pointof leaving. How the hell can you climb over a woman when her
mother'sdying downstairs, perhaps right beneath you? I put my arms around
her,half in sympathy and half determined to get what I had come for. Aswe
stood thus she murmured, as if in real distress, her need for themoney I had
promised her. It was for "maman. " Shit, I didn'thave the heart to haggle
about a few francs at the moment. I walkedover to the chair where my clothes
were lying and I wiggled a hundredfranc note out of my fob pocket, carefully
keeping my back turned toher just the same. And. as a further precaution. I
placed my pants onthe side of the bed where I knew I was going to flop. The
hundred francswasn't altogether satisfactory to her, but I could see from
the feebleway that she protested that it was quite enough. Then, with an
energythat astonished me, she flung off her kimono and jumped into bed.
Assoon as I had put my arms around her and pulled her to me

    she reached forthe switch and out went the lights. She embraced me
passionately, andshe groaned as all French cunts do when they get you in bed.
She wasgetting me frightfully roused with her carrying on( that business
ofturning out the lights was a new one to me ... it seemed like the realthing.
But I was suspicious too. and as soon as I could manage convenientlyI put my
hands out to feel if my trousers were still there on the chair.
    I thought wewere settled for the night. The bed felt very comfortable,
softer thanthe average hotel bed _ and the sheets were clean, I had noticed
that.If only she wouldn't squirm so! You would think she hadn't slept witha
man for a month. I wanted to stretch it out. I wanted full value formy
hundred francs. But she was mumbling all sorts of things in thatcrazy bed
language which goes to your blood even more rapidly when it'sin the dark. I
was putting up a stiff fight, but it was impossible withher groaning and
gasping going on. and her muttering: "Vite cheri!Vite cfieri! Oh, c'est bon!
Oh, oh! Vite. vite, cheri! " I triedto count but it was like a fire alarm
going off. "Vite, cheri! "and this time she gave such a gasping shudder that
bango! I heard thestars chiming and there was my hundred francs gone and the
fifty thatI had forgotten all about and the lights were on again and with
thesame alacrity that she had bounced into bed she was bouncing out againand
grunting and squealing like an old sow. I lay back and puffed acigarette,
gazing ruefully at my pants the while; they were terriblywrinkled. In a
moment she was back again, wrapping the kimono aroundher, and telling me in
that agitated way which was getting on my nervesthat I should make myself at
home. "I'm going downstairs to see mother," she said. "Mais faites comme
chez vous, cheri. Je reviens toutde suite. "
    After a quarterof an hour had passed I began to feel thoroughly restless.
I went insideand I read through a letter that was lying on the table. It was
nothingof any account _ a love letter. In the bathroom I examined all the
bottleson the shelf; she had everything a woman requires to make herself
smellbeautiful. I was still hoping that she would come back and give me
anotherfifty francs' worth. But time dragged on and there was no sign of
her.I began to grow alarmed. Perhaps there was someone dying
downstairs.Absent-mindedly, out of a sense of selfpreservation, I suppose. I
beganto put my things on. As I was buckling my belt it came to me like
aflash how she had stuffed the hundred franc note into her purse. Inthe
excitement of the moment she had thrust the purse in the wardrobe,on the
upper shelf. I remembered the gesture she made _ standing onher tiptoes and
reaching for the shelf. It didn't take me a minute toopen the wardrobe and
feel around for the purse. It was still there.I opened it hurriedly and saw
my hundred franc note lying snugly betweenthe silk coverlets. I put the
purse back just as it was. slipped intomy coat and shoes, and then I went to
the landing and listened intently.I couldn't hear a sound. Where she had
gone to. Christ only knows. Ina jiffy I was back at the wardrobe and
fumbling with her purse. I pocketedthe hundred francs and all the loose
change besides. Then, closing thedoor silently, I tiptoed down the stairs
and when once I had hit thestreet I walked just as fast as my legs would
carry me. At the CafeBoudon I stopped for a bite. The whores there having a
gay time peltinga fat man who had fallen asleep over his meal. He was sound
asleep; snoring, in fact, and yet his jaws were working away mechanically.
Theplace was in an uproar. There were shouts of "All aboard!" and thena
concerted banging of knives and forks. He opened his eyes for a
moment,blinked stupidly, and then his head rolled forward again on his
chest.I put the hundred franc bill carefully away in my fob pocket and
countedthe change. The din around me was increasing and I had difficulty
torecall exactly whether I had seen "first-class" on her diploma or not.It
bothered me. About her mother I didn't give a damn. I hoped she hadcroaked
by now. It would be strange if what she had said were true.Too good to
believe. Vite cheri . . . vite, vile! And the otherhalf-wit with her "my
good sir"and "you have such a kind face"! I wonderedif she had really taken
a room in that hotel we stopped by.

    __t was alongthe close of summer when Fillmore invited me to come and
live with him.He had a studio apartment overlooking the cavalry barracks
just offthe Place Dupleix. We had seen a lot of each other since the
littletrip to Le Havre. If it hadn't been for Fill-more I don't know whereI
should be today _ dead, most likely.
    "I would haveasked you long before, " he said, "if it .hadn't been for
that littlebitch Jackie. I didn't know how to get her off my hands. "
    I had to smile.It was always like that with Fillmore. He had a genius
for attractinghomeless bitches. Anyway, Jackie had finally cleared out of
her ownaccord.
    The rainy seasonwas coming on, the long, dreary stretch of grease and
fog and squirtsof rain that make you damp and miserable. An execrable place
in thewinter. Paris! A climate that eats into your soul, that leaves you
bareas the Labrador coast. I noticed with some anxiety that the only meansof
heating the place was the little stove in the studio. However, itwas still
comfortable. And the view from the studio window was superb.
    In the morningFillmore would shake me roughly and leave a ten franc note
on the pillow.As soon as he had gone I would settle back for a final snooze.
SometimesI would lie abed till noon. There was nothing pressing, except to
finishthe book, and that didn't worry me much because I was already
convincedthat nobody would accept it anyway. Nevertheless, Fillmore was
muchimpressed by it. When he arrived in the evening with a bottle underhis
arm the first thing he did was to go to the table and see how manypages I
had knocked off. At first I enjoyed this show of enthusiasmbut later, when I
was running dry, it made me devilishly uneasy to seehim poking around,
searching for the pages that were supposed to trickleout of me like water
from a tap. When there was nothing to show I feltexactly like some bitch
whom he had harbored . He used to say aboutJackie, I remembered _ "it would
have been all right if only she hadslipped me a piece of ass once in a while.
" If I had beena woman I would have been only too glad to slip him a piece
of ass:it would have been much easier than to feed him the pages which he
expected.
    Nevertheless,he tried to make me feel at ease. There was always plenty
of food andwine. and now and then he would insist that I accompany him to a
dancing.He was fond of going to a nigger joint on the Rue d' Odessa where
therewas a good-looking mulatto who used to come home with us
occasionally.The one thing that bothered him was that he couldn't find a
French girlwho liked to drink. They were all too sober to satisfy him _ He
likedto bring a woman back to the studio and guzzle it with her before
gettingdown to business. He also liked to have her think that he was an
artist.As the man from whom he had rented the place was a painter, it was
notdifficult to create an impression; the canvases which we had found inthe
armoire were soon stuck about the place and one of the unfinishedones
conspicuously mounted on the easel. Unfortunately they were allof a
surrealistic quality and the impression they created was usuallyunfavorable.
Between a whore, a concierge and a cabinet minister thereis not much
difference in taste where pictures are concerned. It wasa matter of great
relief to Fill-more when Mark Swift began to visitus regularly with the
intention of doing my portrait. Fillmore had agreat admiration for Swift. He
was a genius, he said. And though therewas something ferocious about
everything he tackled nevertheless whenhe painted a man or an object you
could recognize it for what it was.
    At Swift's requestI had begun to grow a beard. The shape of my skull, he
said, requireda beard. I had to sit by the window with the Eiffel Tower in
back ofme because he wanted the Eiffel Tower in the picture too. He also
wantedthe typewriter in the picture. Kruger got the habit of dropping in
tooabout this time; he maintained that Swift knew nothing about painting.It
exasperated him to see things out of proportion. He believed in Nature'slaws,
implicitly. Swift didn't give a fuck about Nature; he wanted topaint what
was inside his head. Anyway, there was Swift's portrait ofme stuck on the
easel now, and though everything was out of proportion,even a cabinet
minister could see that it was a human head, a man witha beard. The concierge,
indeed, began to take a great interest in thepicture; she thought the
likeness was striking.

    And she likedthe idea of showing the Eiffel Tower in the background.
    Things rolledalong this way peacefully for about a month or more. The
neighborhoodappealed to me, particularly at night _when the full squalor and
lugubriousnessof it made itself felt. The little Place, so charming and
tranquil attwilight, could assume the most dismal, sinister character when
darknesscame on. There was that long, high wall covering one side of the
barracksagainst which there was always a couple embracing each other
furtively_ often in the rain. A depressing sight to see two lovers squeezed
againsta prison wall under a gloomy street light: as if they had been
drivenright to the last bounds. What went on inside the enclosure was
alsodepressing. On a rainy day I used to stand by the window and look downon
the activity below, quite as if it were something going on on anotherplanet.
It seemed incomprehensible to me. Everything done accordingto schedule, but
a schedule that must have been devised by a lunatic.There they were.
floundering around in the mud, the bugles blowing,the horses charging _ all
within four walls. A sham battle. A lot oftin soldiers who hadn't the least
interest in learning how to kill orhow to polish their boots or currycomb
the horses. Utterly ridiculousthe whole thing, but part of the scheme of
things.' When they had nothingto do they looked even more ridiculous; they
scratched themselves, theywalked about with their hands in their pockets,
they looked up at thesky. And when an officer came along they clicked their
heels and saluted.A madhouse, it seemed to me. Even the horses looked silly.
And thensometimes the artillery was dragged out and they went clattering
downthe street on parade and people stood and gaped and admired the
tineuniforms. To me they always looked like an army corps in retreat;
somethingshabby, bedraggled, crestfallen about them, their uniforms too big
fortheir bodies, all the alertness. which as individuals they possess tosuch
a remarkable degree, gone now.
    When the suncame out, however, things looked different. There was a ray
of hopein their eyes. they walked more elastically, they showed a little
enthusiasm.Then the color of things peeped out graciously and there was that
fussand bustle so characteristic of the French; at the bistro onthe corner
they chattered gaily over their drinks and the officers seemedmore human,
more French. I mightsay. When the sun comes out, any spot in Paris can look
beautiful; andif there is a bistro with an awning rolled down, a few
tableson the sidewalk and colored drinks in the glasses, then people
lookaltogether human. And they are human _ the finest people in theworld
when the sun shines! So intelligent, so indolent, so carefree!It's a crime
to herd such a people into barracks, to put them throughexercises, to grade
them into privates and sergeants and colonels andwhat not.