The fiddles and the drums are partners for their arms and
their muscles. But their hearts embrace shyly the Mother Aphrodite. Their
hearts listen sadly and proudly and they almost forget to dance.
* * * * *
Midnight approaches. Enameled faces, stenciled smiles, painted eyes and
slants of colored hats--these are the women. Careless, polite, suave,
grinning--these are the men. The jazz band plays. The cabaret floor,
jammed, seems to be moving around like a groaning turnstile.
Bodies are hidden. The spotlight from the balcony begins to throw a series
of colors. Melody is lost. The jazz band is hammering like a mad
blacksmith. Whang! Bam! Whang! Bam! Nobody hears the music of the band.
Bodies together move on the turnstile floor. This is the part of the feast
of Belshazzar that the authorities censored in a Griffith movie. This is
the description of Tiberius's court that the authorities suppressed. Here
are the poems that hide on the forbidden shelves of the public library.
The pulp of figures dissolves. The hammering band has finished. Men and
women, grown suddenly polite and social, return to their tables. Citizens
of a neighborhood, toilers, clerks, fourflushers, wives, husbands,
gropers, nobodies, less-than-nobodies--watch and see where they go.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284