‘And for you,’ she said, turning to College, ‘how about Lucretia? She can work the player best. It’s kind of moody.’
Lucretia had black hair in ringlets; she wore a white Sunday school dress, too. ‘Do you like Mogul?’ she said to College. ‘I hate it. Shall I play for you? Do you sing? What do you want to sing?’
She inserted the roll for ‘Careless Love’ into the opening of the piano and pumped at the pedals. What else would a whore play for a railroadman? for a hero of the age? College launched into the opening stanza, elbow perched on her shoulder:
It’s on this railroad bank I stand,
It’s on this railroad bank I stand,
It’s on this railroad bank I stand,
All for the love of a railroad man.
College stopped abruptly. ‘Sing, Johnny,’ he said.
Jonathan flushed and they all laughed.
‘Get him to sing, Fritzi,’ College said.
Fritzi slid down the arm of the chair into Jonathan’s lap; she took his hand in hers and placed it on her bodice. Jonathan took in his breath and sang; he had a full, strong singing voice, resonant if not pure. He was hardly aware of being led upstairs.
My father Rayner – you can see now that he was named for College – said sex had the power to blot out everything else. Perhaps it was his age: he was old for a beginner: twenty-two, a year older than his father, Jonathan, who was old for a beginner at twenty-one (if indeed he was twenty-one). Stallions mount mares and pump away, jerk, jerk, jerk, half-standing, sweating, faces expressionless, weight thrust forward as though they were working a recalcitrant treadle. Bulls mount cows and pump away. Dogs mount and pump, so do cats, pigs, whales, humans, even turtles for Christ’s sake – even turtles – same stance, same movement every time: jerk, jerk, jerk. Some animals have shells, some have fur, some have hair, some don’t: you could shift one beast for another and never notice any difference in rhythm: jerk, jerk, jerk. It’s even sillier in a whorehouse, especially before the turn of the century. Nobody knew what to do about the clap, but anybody who had any sense was scared. So here in the midst of all these profound fears about life, humanity, human relationships, touching the flesh, George: in the midst of all this and for the sake of this queer pleasure that engrosses humans just as totally as it does dogs and pigs, the whore gives the guy’s prick a deft twist, inspects it as though it were a suspect pudding spoon, washes it with disinfectant from a cracked china bowl with a ring of dirt around the edge. Then she lies down on the bed, spreads her stockinged legs – her still booted feet wide apart – and throws up her petticoats.
Well, there are enlightenments and enlightenments. People who seek patterns in life are likely to find them from time to time. What young American isn’t in a state of grace when he realizes he can fuck his way across the continent? Fritzi was up and busy again. She pulled a half-full chamber pot out from under the bed. Jonathan, my grandfather, who had loved whores long before he even knew what they were for, rolled onto his elbow and watched her squat over it, petticoats raised to reveal the tips of her naked buttocks, enchanted with himself, enchanted with her, enchanted with whores all over again. Could this be why the diaries are in code? My grandfather writes about Fritzi without any whitewash at all. It’s likely, I guess. They were prudish times. Fritzi fetched the bowl of disinfectant, washed them both once more (to his further enchantment) and began to pull her Sunday school dress over her head.