«That's how I'll begin,» he said, «in your guts. First I'll let out all that romantic nonsense which makes you think you lead a charmed life; then I'll skin you like a snake so as to get at your calm, peaceful nerves and make them quiver and jump; you'll be more alive under the knife than you are right now; you'll look queer with one leg on and one leg off and your head sitting on my mantelpiece with your mouth fixed in a perpetual grin.»

He turned to Mara. «Do you think you'll still be in love with him when I dress him for the laboratory?»

I turned my back on him and went to the window. It was a typical back view in the Bronx: wooden fences, clothes poles, wash lines, mangy grass plots, serial tenement houses, fire escapes, et cetera. Figures prowled back and forth before the windows in all states of attire. They were getting ready to retire in order to go through with the morrow's meaningless humdrum. One out of a hundred thousand might escape the general doom; as for the rest it would be an act of mercy if some one came in the night and slit their throats while they slept. To believe that these wretched victims had it in them to create a new world was sheer insanity. I thought of Kronski's second wife, the one who would eventually go crazy. She was from these parts. Her father ran a stationery stone; the mother lay in bed all day nursing a cancerous womb. Her youngest brother had the sleeping sickness, another was paralyzed, and the oldest one was a mental defective. An intelligently ordered state would have put the whole family out of commission and the house with it... I spat out of the window in disgust. Kronski was standing beside me, his arm around Mara's waist. «Why not jump it?» I said, throwing my hat out the window.

«What, and make a mess for the neighbors to mop up? No sir, not me. Mister Miller, it seems to me that you're the one who's anxious to commit suicide. Why don't you jump?»

«I'm willing,» I said, «provided you jump with me. Let me show how easy it is. Here, give me your hand...»

«Oh, stop it!» said Mara. «You're behaving like children. I thought you two were going to help me solve my problem. I've got real worries.»

«There are no solutions,» said Kronski glumly. It's impossible to help your father because he doesn't want to be helped. He wants to die.»

«But I want to live,» said Mara. «I refuse to be a drudge.»

«That's what everybody says, but it doesn't help. Until we overthrow this rotten capitalistic system there'll be no solution to...»

«That's all rot,» Mara broke in. «Do you think I'm going to wait for the revolution in order to live my life? Something has to be done now. If I can't solve it any other way I'll become a whore—an intelligent one, of course».

«There are no intelligent whores,» said Kronski. «To prostitute the body is a sign of feeble intelligence. Why don't you use your brains? You'd have a better time of it if you became a spy. Now that's an idea! I think I could dig up something for you along those lines. I have some pretty good connections in the Party. Of course, you'd have to give up the idea of living with this bird,» and he jerked his thumb in my direction. «But a dame like you,» and he eyed her gloating from head to foot, «could take her pick. How would you like to pose as a countess or a princess?» he added. «A hundred a week and all expenses paid... not so bad, what?»

«I make more than that now,» said Mara, «without the risk of being shot.»

«What?» we both exclaimed at once. She laughed. «You think that's big money, do you? I need much more than that. If I wanted to I could marry a millionaire to-morrow; I've had several offers already.»

«Why don't you marry one and divorce him quickly,» said Kronski. «You could marry one after another and become a millionairess yourself. Where's your brains? You don't mean to tell me you have scruples about such things?»

Mara didn't know quite how to answer this. All she could think to say was that it was obscene to marry an old derelict for his money.

«And you think you could be a whore!» he said scornfully. «You're as bad as this guy here—he's corrupted by bourgeois morality too. Listen, why don't you train him as your pimp? You'd make a fine romantic couple in the underworld of sex. Do that! Maybe I can bring you some trade now and then.»

«Dr. Kronski,» I said, giving him the bland and amiable smile, «I think we'll be taking leave of you now. This has been a most pleasant and instructive evening, I assure you. When Mara gets her first dose of syphilis I'll be sure to call on you for your expert services. I think you've solved all our problems with admirable finesse. When you send your wife to the asylum come and spend a little time with us—it will be jolly to have you around, you're inspiring and entertaining, to say the least.»

«Don't go yet,» he begged, «I want to talk to you seriously.» He turned to Mara. «Just how much do you need immediately? I could lend you three hundred dollars, if that would help. I'd have to have it back in six months, because it isn't mine. Listen, don't run off now. Let him go—I want to tell you a few things.»

Mara looked at me as if to ask whether this was just talk on his part.

«Don't ask his advice,» said Kronski. «I'm sincere with you. I like you and I want to do something for you.» He turned round on me gruffly: «Go on, go home, will you? I'm not going to rape her.»

«Shall I go?» I asked.

«Yes, please do,» said Mara. «Only why did the idiot wait so long to tell me this?»

I had my doubts about, the three hundred dollars but I left anyway. In the subway, faced with the broken-down night riders of the big city, I fell into a deep introspection, such as comes over the hero in modern novels. Like them, I asked myself useless questions, posed problems that didn't exist, made plans for the future which would never materialize, doubted everything, including my own existence. For the modern hero thought leads nowhere; his brain is a collender in which he washes the soggy vegetables of the mind. He says to himself that he is in love and he sits in the moving underground trying to run like a sewer. He beguiles himself with pleasant thoughts. For example this one: he is probably kneeling on the floor, stroking her knees: he is working his sweaty ham-like paw slowly upwards over the cool flesh: he is telling her in glutinous language how unique she is; there never was any three hundred dollars but if he can get it in, if he can get her to open her legs a little more, he'll try to raise something; while she is sliding her twat closer and closer, hoping that he'll just be satisfied to suck her off and not make her go the whole hog, she tells herself that it's no betrayal because she warned all and sundry with explicit frankness that if she had to do it she'd do it and she must do something. God help her, it's very real and very urgent: she can get away with this easily enough because nobody knows how many times she's let herself be fucked for a little loose change; she's got a good excuse, not wanting her father to die like a dog; he's got his head between her legs now, his tongue is hot; she slips down lower and puts a leg around his neck; the juice is flowing and she feels hornier than she ever felt; is he going to tantalize her all night? She takes his head in her hands and runs her fingers through his greasy hair; she presses her cunt against his mouth; she feels it coming, she squirms and wriggles, she gasps, she pulls his hair. Where are you? she screams to herself. Give me that fat prick! She pulls frantically at his collar, yanks him off his knees; in the dark her hand slips like an eel into the bulging fly, cups the fat swollen balls, traces with thumb and finger the stiff chicken neck of the penis where it dives into the unknown; he's slow and heavy and he pants like a walrus; she raises her legs high, slings them round his neck. Get it in, you fuss-pot! Not there—here! She puts her fist around it and leads it to the stable. Oh, that's good. Oh! Oh! Oh God, it's good this way, keep it in, hold it, hold it. Get it in deeper, push it in all the way... there, that's it, that's it. Oh, Oh! He's trying to hold it. He's trying to think of two things at once. Three hundred dollars... three greenbacks. Who'll give it to me? Jesus, that feels marvelous. Jesus, hold that now! Hold it! He's feeling and thinking at the same time. He feels a little clam without a shell opening and closing, a thirsty flower clamping the end of his prick. Don't move now, he says to himself. Just watch it with closed eyes. Count one two three four. Don't move, you bastard, or I'll spill it. Do that again! Jesus, what a cunt! He feels for her boobies, rips the dress open, laps a nipple greedily. Don't move now, just suck, that's it, like that. Easy now, easy! Jesus, if we could only lie like this all night. Oh Jesus, it's coming. Move, you bitch! Give it to me... faster, faster. Oh, Ah, Sis, Boom, Blam!