CHAPTER IX
Martin felt the hum of an elevator, fresh air in his face and the movement of an automobile. He knew that he was talking too much to an individual he’d never seen before, and suddenly found himself in a long bright corridor that smelled of medicine. He was helped into a semi-darkened room and felt a glass between his lips. He thought of Roberts, swallowed and choked.
“It’s ether,” he said.
“No, it isn’t,” said the nurse, standing by him and trying to get him into bed. “It will be good for you.”
Martin saw her for the first time. Then he felt himself falling. The nurse steadied him, and suddenly everything was clear. He felt well, stimulated. He wanted to talk some more.
“So! Martin finally reaches Hell! Our pathological bundle of yeast becomes animate in Bedlam!”
“Won’t you get into bed?” asked the nurse. “You will be sleepy in a minute.”
“All right.” He stood up, swaying. “Martin in Hell. Being tucked in bed by an angel with wide hips. Coasting to sleep with a bellyful of ether. A true Nirvana for a true aesthete.” He stopped talking. Again hysteria struck him. But this time it was soft and languorous and he held it tightly as it moved in his groin. His breathing was quiet.
The nurse sat beside him in the darkened room. He breathed slowly now, beginning to jerk and posture. He held his hand in the air as though emphasizing a dream.
In the early morning he awakened. His hand moved over the side of the bed, reaching for a bottle of wine. His fingers went back and forth over the rug. Then he opened his eyes and saw the woman sitting beside him.