Delta of Venus - Anais Nin [58]
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Pierre had nothing to fear from the Elena he knew and had so delicately circumnavigated. But there was an Elena he did not know, the virile Elena. Although she did not wear short hair or a man’s suit, ride a horse, smoke cigars or frequent the bars where such women congregate, there was a spiritually masculine Elena, dormant in her for the moment.
In all but matters of love, Pierre was helpless. He could not nail a nail to a wall, hang up a picture, repair a book, discuss technical matters of any kind. He lived in terror of servants, concierges, plumbers. He could not make a decision, sign a contract of any sort; he did not know what he wanted.
Elena’s energies rushed into these lacunas. Her mind became the more fecund. She bought the books and newspapers, incited activity, made decisions. Pierre permitted this. It suited his nonchalance. She gained in audacity.
She felt protective toward him. As soon as the sexual aggression was over, he reclined like a pasha and let her rule. He did not observe another Elena emerging, affirming new contours, habits, a new personality. Elena had discovered that women were drawn to her.
She was invited by Kay to meet Leila, a well-known nightclub singer, a woman of dubious sex. They went to Leila’s house. She was lying in bed. The room was heavily charged with the perfume of narcissus, and Leila rested against the headboard in a languid, intoxicated way. Elena thought she was recovering from a night of drinking, but this was Leila’s natural pose. And from this languid body came a man’s voice. Then the violet eyes fixed themselves on Elena, appraising her with masculine deliberateness.
Leila’s lover, Mary, entered the room then, with a rushing sound of wide silk skirts inflated by her quick steps. She threw herself at the foot of the bed and took Leila’s hand. They looked at each other with so much desire that Elena lowered her eyes. Leila’s face was sharp, Mary’s vague; Leila’s, drawn in heavy charcoal around the eyes as in the Egyptian frescos, Mary’s, in pastels – pale eyes, sea-green eyelids and coral nails and lips; Leila’s eyebrows natural, Mary’s, a pencil line only. When they looked at each other, Leila’s features seemed to dissolve, and Mary’s to acquire some of Leila’s definiteness. But her voice remained unreal, and her phrases unfinished, floating. Mary was uneasy in Elena’s presence. Instead of expressing hostility or fear, she took the feminine attitude, as toward a man, and sought to charm her. She did not like the way Leila looked at Elena. She sat near Elena, folding her legs under her like a little girl, and turned her mouth up toward her as she talked, invitingly. But these childish mannerisms were the very ones Elena disliked in women. She turned toward Leila whose gestures were mature and simple.
Leila said, ‘Let’s go together to the studio. I’ll get dressed.’ As she leaped out of her bed she abandoned her languor. She was tall. She used apache French, like a boy, but with a royal audacity. No one could use it on her. She did not entertain at the nightclub; she ruled. She was a magnetic center for the world of women who considered themselves condemned by their vice. She whipped them into being proud of their deviations, not succumbing to bourgeois morality. She severely condemned suicides and disintegration. She wanted women who were proud of being Lesbians. She set the example. She wore men’s clothes despite police regulations. She was never molested. She did it with grace and nonchalance. She rode horseback at the Bois in men’s clothes. She was so elegant, so suave, so aristocratic, that people who did not know her bowed to her, almost unconsciously. She made other women hold up their heads. She was the one masculine woman men treated as a comrade. Whatever tragic spirit lay behind this polished surface went into her singing, with which she tore people’s serenity to shreds, spreading anxiety and regrets and nostalgia everywhere.
In the taxi, sitting next