Moloch: Or, This Gentile World by Henry Miller Read Free Book Online

With the possible exception of Dave, who forced himself to admire Prigozi because they were both members of the chosen race, everyone considered him obnoxious and repulsive. It was Matt Reardon’s idea that Prigozi dropped in to show off before the female members of the staff. He attached no importance to Moloch’s air of geniality. In his mind, Moloch was angling for something: when he got it, whatever it was he was after, you’d see—he’d drop Prigozi like hot shot. He didn’t admire this quality in Moloch very much, even though Prigozi was a rat. He had a different conception of friendship himself. Moloch was too damned—well, “callous”—that was the word.
    In the office Prigozi never dropped his coarse bantering attitude. It was all a part of his warm attachment to the “boss,” as he persisted in calling his friend Moloch.... There was no denying the fellow’s unattractiveness. To say that he was ugly is to flatter him. His skin was coarse and pockmarked, and as greasy as if it had been rubbed with lard. His nose, which Matt Reardon had once likened to a rubber syringe, was a huge priapic organ covered with blackheads. When he grew voluble and excited, thick globules of grease seeping from the enlarged pores clustered about the tip. He was forever scratching his scalp, which was infected and caused his scant hairs to fall out, leaving big red rings such as children sometimes exhibit when they get the worms. His clothes were never pressed, and seldom clean; on his coat collar there was always a thick layer of dandruff which lay like a mantle of snowfiakes about his sober wattles.
    In the midst of his clowning Prigozi suddenly stopped chattering and looked fixedly at a queer creature seated on a bench in a corner of the anteroom. No one seemed to know how long the man had been sitting there. Looking at him intently, one had the feeling that he might go on sitting there indefinitely … that you could hang him up by the coat collar and leave him to cure, like a ham.
    “Call that bozo over,” Prigozi ordered in a thick, suety voice. “Now we’ve got something to make a fuss about.”
    “Whoa, there!” Moloch almost shoved the flat of his hand in Prigozi’s face. “Pretty late, isn’t it, for a sideshow performance?” He turned to Lawson, who sat like a Cerberus guarding the sacred portals. “What’s this chap waiting for, Lawson? I thought Matt got rid of all the applicants?”
    “He insists on seeing you personally, Mr. Moloch.”
    “Well, then, that’s different .” Moloch brought this out with a mocking bite, as if it were the Sultan of Morocco who had requested the privilege of an audience.
    Though it was oppressively warm outdoors, the mysterious figure on the bench was dressed like Tweedledum preparing for battle with Tweedledee. Over a pair of dirty flannel trousers he had on a cardigan jacket; also a heavy sweater with a long neck that went up about his ears, and on top of this a ragged ulster which was fastened together with huge safety pins. His pockets were stuffed with old newspapers which he had doubtless collected in the day’s journey as he wandered aimlessly about the city streets. In the buttonhole of his ulster was a tiny American flag.
    Matt Reardon nudged Prigozi and pointed to the flag. Prigozi sniggered and settled down to observe this set-to with all his critical acumen. The lenses of his spectacles were bottle-thick and gave his eyes the appearance of two ugly fish snouts pressing against a pair of Mazda bulbs.
    “Good morning, friend. Can you give me a job?”
    This was the first sign they had that the mysterious one was alive, and human. He had walked listlessly up to Moloch, when that individual beckoned to him, and commenced to talk in a subdued, distracted manner, as though he had been unexpectedly pushed onto the stage during an amateur night contest and was a little uncertain whether the monologue he had prepared was just the thing or not. It was a chaotic,