MILLER & GEORGE
ROBBIE
Orwell'
By Nick Garrett
The winter afternoon was closing in, the Paris streets, slightly misty and
illuminated by the blue-ish light of the street lamps, glittered under a
thin floating drizzle. In a side street near the Place de la Contrescarpe
Orwell and Henry Miller strolled along. Orwell was stooping forward,
attempting to
light a gauloise inside the jacket of his blue suit. He spoke through the
cigarette.
"God, this place still stinks."
Miller grinned.
"Why don't you write a letter of complaint to Le Monde? I'll post it for you
in the morning. I'm sure they'd appreciate an englishman's opinion of their
malodorous boulevards."
The accents couldn't have been more different, one a confident american, the
other a low reserved british.
"I've half a mind to...."
Miller puffed on his cigarette.
"Of course, it might turn out to be the last thing you publish. If they
published it. That'd be odd, wouldn't it?"
Orwell coughed slightly and looked round at Miller.
"I should say rather appropriate somehow. Where are we going?"
"For a drink. I sent a friend of mine to get something. Told him we'd meet
him in here."
" You know I've got a train to catch."
Miller pushed the scuffed door of a little bar open, he looked back at
Orwell.
"Eric, that's not for a good while yet, and the departing warrior should
have
some sort of revel."
"Well....."
The bar was small, gloomy and practically empty. The owner nodding off over
a glass of calvados and the sole other customer drinking a beer and blowing
smoke rings. A wireless on the bar was broadcasting Edith Piaf singing,
the sound of the little sparrow bleeding into a news bulletin about Spain.
Whilst Miller bought
the drinks, Orwell poked at the fire and smiled at a picture of Lily
Langtry.
Miller sat down with a bottle of Margaux and two glasses. As he poured he
locked eyes with Orwell.
"You're a goddamned idiot."
Orwell's eyes shone.
"I rather thought you might be thinking along those lines. An idiot eh?"
Miller sat back and tasted his wine.
"Well, it figures I suppose. I had you down for a demented boy scout ever
since I read 'Down an Out."
"My dear Miller, you won't be able to stop me from going to Spain by
insulting me. This isn't just a simple case of eccentric knight errantry you
know-"
"Isn't it? That's just what it looks like from where I'm sitting."
Orwell it a cigarette and drank some wine.
"I'd have thought you would appreciate the value of freedom, of
democracy."
"I do. Personal freedom. To think you're defending it by going down there
and getting killed is baloney."
"Baloney. I like that word. I'm not generally keen on American slang, but
for some reason I like that. What makes you think I'll be killed?"
"Because you're going to fight people with guns, and because you'll do
something. I don't know what, but you''ll do something, something full of
courage and bravery, and absolutely bloody pointless...."
"Thanks Henry."
"....Thinking you're in Beau Geste, or Kipling, yes Kipling. This is Kipling
behaviour."
"I'm going down there to fight for democracy...."
Miller topped up Orwell's glass.
"And the worst of it is, is that it's Kipling allright, but not the Kipling
of 'If' but the kipling of 'The Man who would be king King'! Hah!"
Orwell grinned. Miller leaned across the table pointing.
"You see......."
Orwell blew smoke.
"It's a good joke. But, with the way things are, people are going to have to
stand and fight. If not now, certainly later. And dare I say it, personal
freedom will be knocked asunder by people like Hitler, and the need to fight
people like Hitler."
"You take it all on your back, don't you? Why.... why don't you just accept
that you're in the middle of a goddamn crazy world, in a unknowable cosmos
and putting yourself up as a martyr, won't change a thing."
Orwell smiled.
"I don't agree. I have, for my sins, a high kind of energetic puritanism.
Knowing that the threat of fascism is growing daily, If I have the option of
living in Paris, or anywhere else for that matter, and lying in bed till
three drinking dry martinis and railling against the world, or going and
sitting in a rat infested theatre of war with the risk of getting my head
shot off, I will reject sluttish antinomianism every time."
Miller pursed his lips and re-filled his glass.
"You haven't got to be lying in bed all day for god's sake."
"That's an extreme example I know, but anything other than positive action
is a kind of vice. This wine is rather good. I've drunk an awful lot of bad
wine in Paris when I come to think about it. They call it 'gratte gorge'-
the throat scraper."
The door clattered open and a fat man wandered in and moved to the bar
slowly. Orwell watched him.
"It's amazing isn't it, how you can instantly spot someone who is only even
half drunk. Especially the fatter types, they're a bit like large ships- if
they want to stop going in a certain direction, the message takes a while to
get from bridge to engine room, then there is a period while the action is
carried out."
The fat man had come to rest at the bar. Miller looked round at him.
"He could be that Russian devil you lived with in Down and Out."
Orwell's eyes were getting a glow.
"Boris? Yes. I wonder where he is now?"
Miller lit a gauloise.
"Maybe he's going to Spain too?"
" I doubt it. He liked talking war, besides if he was there, he'd be on the
other side. No, I like to think he finally became maitre'd of a respectable
restaurant, though he's probably dead of drink by now."
Orwell drained his glass. Miller stood up.
"The bottle's empty- another?"
"I think so. Here, let me get it."
Orwell stood up and dug his hand in his pocket. Miller shook his head.
"I'm buying the drinks, Don Quixote."
"When's your friend getting here?"
"Soon enough."
As Miller returned with another bottle, Orwell was opening a cigarette case.
"I hope you're keeping that in front of your heart."
"As a matter of fact I am."
Miller filled the glasses.
"Eric, you ever wonder how many books, maybe great books, you have inside
you?"
" A rather egotistical pastime wouldn't you say? I can imagine you doing
it."
"I do. Frequently. And so should you. Of course you won't be able to write
them if you get your balls blown off in Catalonia."
Orwell smiled.
"If facism spreads around the world and triumphs, I won't be able to write
them anyway. Your not interested in politics, but you are interested in art.
What about the freedom of the artist? I think there ought to be an artist's
militia."
"Hah, I call that downright dangerous for their own side. A bunch of fairies
and drunks issued with machine guns."
"My dear Miller, I hope you remember this conversation in a few years time,
when you're working on a fascist labour farm somewhere, with an armband that
says 'writer of filthy books' on it."
"That'll never happen."
"No, one way or another it won't, no thanks to the artists of the world. But
there are a lot of people who are alive now who'll be dead by then because
of it."
Miller leaned forward.
"Including, maybe, you."
"It'll be worth it. Obviously, somehow, in the realpolitik of your inner
mind, you can manage to ignore politics and liberty, and carry on living in
the shadow of a growing tyranny. I simply can't."
Miller smiled and scratched his head. The drink was taking effect on both
men.
"Okay, okay. Humanity's going to take a turn for the worse, whatever
happens."
Orwell's eyes narrowed.
"What is it you american's say? 'You bet your sweet arse it is!"
Miller roared with laughter.
"I like it! You're loosening up. Carry on like this and you'll be drinking
dry martini's in bed yet!"
Orwell's voice became serious.
" Yes it is going to take a turn for the worse. This thing in Spain is a
shot across the bows, by the end of it everyone in the world's going to up
to their necks in it. Including the happy go lucky USA."
"I don't think so, Uncle Sam's staying out of the old country's disputes."
"For now Henry, for now."
Miller had a long draught on his wine.
"You wanna get laid?"
"What?"
"You wanna go to bed with a girl before you go off and save the world? I
know a good brothel near here."
Orwell ground out his cigarette and lit another.
"Henry, I don't really need to be chaperoned to sexual encounters at my age
thank you."
"Goddamn it, how old are you?"
"Thirty four."
"Well I'm forty six, and I'd let you take me there if I was going off to
war."
Orwell blew smoke.
"Yes, well I'm not you am I? Vive le difference."
The door to the bar opened and Miller's friend came in, a young man carrying
a coat. He passed it to Miller.
"Thanks Alfred. Get a drink."
Miller turned to Orwell, whose eyes were glowing and cheeks rosy.
"Here, this is for you. You can't go and fight dressed for an interveiw with
an insurance company."
He passed Orwell the coat, sturdy, and made from corduroy .
"For me? Thank you very much."
"I can't see you going off without something to keep the chills at bay."
"Corduroy. Cord du roy- the clothes of the king."
Orwell tried it for size.
"Its a good fit. Thank you again. Look, I've got to be on my way. The train
leaves at midnight and no doubt the station will be crawling with pendantic
french travel bureaucracy."
Orwell drained his glass and shook hands with Miller.
They locked eyes.
"I realize that saying try and be careful to an english nut like you is
pretty damn pointless. But, try and be careful.
"I shall try hard, and I shall also be careful."
The tall englishman ground out his cigarette and picked his bag up.
"I'll walk you to the station, if you like."
"No" said Orwell "stay and finish the wine. Farewell."
"Au revoir and bon voyage. Oh, and Merry Christmas."
"Oh yes, it's Christmas in three days isn't it? I completely forgot."
Orwell shook hands with Miller's friend, cast his eyes around the bar, and,
ducking slightly through the low door, was gone.
Miller sat down. He looked slightly deflated.
"You know, I think he's just about the only guy I know who could take the
wind out of my sails godamn it. Let's get's some brandy and drink a toast to
him, Alfred. Make it good brandy."
"Okay"
Alfred got up to the bar amd Miller drew his hands across his face.
"Goddamnit", he said softly.
(C) nickgarrett 2000