The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (103 page)

—I’d better go, he said, from there.

She did not answer. She had picked up a lipstick, and stood contorting her mouth, drawing generous lips. Then a rush of sound broke over her, and she looked up quick as the door came open behind him, and he stood there in the course of the waves pouring in around him, his back to it, not straight but still as a rock secure against the flood, safe until the turn of the tide.

—Because this . . . one thing I have to do is . . . crucial, Esther.

—
Crucial?
she repeated calmly, and still she did not turn from the mirror. —And you think it will work, well it won’t. Whatever it is, it won’t. She watched her lips as she spoke, paused to draw them in, purse them, separate them so that her large teeth showed, and smudge the handkerchief between them.

And she stopped, dry and silent, as the door came closed where he stood against it. —What are you going to do? she asked him. —I don’t mean this . . . thing you’re up to now, this crucial thing, whatever it is, I don’t care what it is, but after all this what are you going to do? What are you going to do?

—I don’t know but I think . . . he started precipitously, and as he went on his voice was strained but for the first time there was no doubt in it, and no effort to control excitement, —if we go on . . . if we go on we’re finally forced to do the right thing, but . . . and how can I say, now, where, or with whom . . . or what it will be.

Then he lost his balance and almost went over as the door came open behind him in someone else’s hand.

—Rose!

—I saw you here.

—My razor, I forgot that, he said, between them, turning. —A straight razor with black handles, is it in the bathroom?

Rose followed him there. Looking for the thing, he paused half
turned to her, seeming slightly confused at the scent of lavender she brought with her.

—Rose . . .

—I heard a poem, Rose said, —“A magnet hung in a hardware shop . . .”

—It’s not here.

—Rose, Esther said, —that music is too loud, Rose.

Around them the sounds of voices reached separate crests, broke in spray, and lay in foam awash on the surface of the swells as the music rose and receded, and the faces themselves seemed to lift into a moment’s prominence, immediately lost in the trough that followed. So Benny’s face was raised, and stood out inflated with effort, and dropped from sight again.

—To find out what sex it is you just spread it out and
blow
.

Esther looked down to see the kitten, unfurled upside down between large thumbs. —Here, give it to me, give it to me, she said, rescuing it. The nausea startled up in her for a moment.

—It’s the worst feeling in the world, said the tall woman beside her.

—What? Esther asked, drawing the kitten in to her.

—To know you’ve laid a cigarette down somewhere.

The little girl tugged at her skirt. —Mummy sent me up again . . . The tall woman laid a hand on her wrist. —You didn’t tell me that
he
was coming tonight. Esther turned quickly, startled. —Do you know him?

—No, my dear, and I didn’t know that you did.

—But . . . Oh, Esther said. Looking round to where he had been standing beside her she realized that the tall woman was talking about someone else.

—Did you like his book?

—What book? Esther asked, looking where the tall woman was looking, at a man in a tan suit who had just fallen over one end of the couch.

—Now don’t tell me you don’t know about
The Trees of Home?
Or are you snobbish about best sellers too?

—No, I . . .

—My husband says he stole the plot from the Flying Dutchman, whoever that is. My husband meets all sorts of people.

The man in the tan suit, back on his feet, was saying, —Why should I bother to write the crap for those speeches? I’m lucky I can stand up before the Rotary Club and deliver them. Some faggot writes them for me.

Near him, someone obligingly derived
faggot
from the Greek
phagein
. —Phag-, phago-, -phagous, -phagy, -phagia . . . the voice whined. —It means to eat.

Arny Munk, propped against a wall with Sonny Byron’s arm around him, said, —Really ought to tell Maude, ought to tell her . . . huhhh . . . the University of Rochester has discovered huhhhh how to make synthetic morphine huhhhhp from coal tar dyes . . .

—I think you’re sweet, said Sonny Byron, soberly.

Mr. Feddle was standing on a chair, reaching for a book on a high shelf. The swinging alarm clock hit a girl on the back of the head, and she stopped singing
I Can’t Give You Anything But Love
.

Esther, listening intently beyond the tall woman’s voice to escape it, heard only a whine, —the decay of meaning, and you can’t speak a sentence that doesn’t reflect it. You’re enthusiastic over sealed-beam headlights. Enthousiazein, even two hundred years ago it still meant being filled with the spirit of God . . .

She would have gone direct to the couch and sat down, had not Benny caught her by both hands and turned her to face him. —Where did he go? Where is he? Who was that?

—Why . . . my husband. Do you know him?

—Where is he? What was he doing here?

—He just came to get . . . some things . . . Two or three people turned, curious at the tone in their voices, Benny’s excitedly high, while Esther spoke with faltering intensity, as though forced to affirm, and repeat affirmation to this impersonal, circumstantial demand which was Benny. —You’re hurting my wrists, she said.

—But . . . I thought I’d never see him again. Isn’t that . . . isn’t that . . . I never wanted to see him again, and now here he is and I want to see him, I have to see him, where is he?

—I can’t believe he’s really gone, she murmured as they took their eyes from each other and looked toward the door, saw only the young man whose heavy mustache seemed to weigh his round head forward, looking at them, innocent, anxious at their sudden scrutiny.

—Ellery, did you see him? I mean, he was just here, did you see him leave, Ellery?

—Sorry, old girl. He broke a leg. Had to shoot him.

—Really, Ellery, please. I’ve got to find him, is he still here? She had taken hold of Benny’s arm; and who Benny was, or what he wanted, ceased in her grasp which held Benny forth, a dumb prodigy, to witness that the matter was not hers, but necessity’s own.

—A shame to shoot him, a fine blooded animal like that . . . It was difficult to know if the blonde beside Ellery was trying, but unable, to smile, or subduing that smile which is stupidity’s cordial greeting to matters which its very nature excuses it from attempting
to understand: so she looked, not at Esther, but at the silent phenomenon of Esther’s evidence, as though there might be immediately apparent not only the evidence, but the very nature of the case itself, and its disposition not understanding, but dismissal.

—Ellery . . .

—The truck just came around from the Futtybrook Hunt Club, skinned him, cut him up, took him back to the kennels. Dog meat . . . Benny tore from Esther’s grasp, and, stepping forward, he said, —Ellery, what’s the matter with you, good God Ellery will you . . .

—Hell of an end for a thoroughbred.

—
Stop
it, will you tell us . . . Benny commenced, raising his hands.

—Come on, Benny. You’re drunk, Ellery said, grinning and looking at him, and the blonde looked at Esther, no longer plaintiff but witness herself to the relieving and obvious fact that there was really nothing to be concerned about after all. —He’s gone, Ellery said easily. —I saw him leave a minute or two ago. He put a hand on Benny’s shoulder. —Come on, Benny, Christ. Straighten up. I told you you deserved a drink, but not a whole bottle . . . Benny drew away from him, without even looking at his face; and Ellery shrugged, took a deep inhalation from his cigarette, winking at the blonde as he turned away. Esther and Benny stood silent, as though both listening for denial of Ellery, for explanation of one another.

—That very odd girl with the green tongue has been telling me that it was really the Jews who discovered America, said the tall woman, her back to them. —Isabella’s
jew
els didn’t have a thing to do with it, backing Columbus I mean, it seems it was Isabella’s
Jews
 . . .

They both looked up, and both spoke at once. But Esther stopped.

—He was a draftsman, wasn’t he. Were you married to him then? He was only a draftsman, and I was a designer. We worked together. He never mentioned me, did he. Well why, why should he, why should he have mentioned me to anybody, why . . .

Over his shoulder, Esther looked up to see the brown eyes of the critic; then she turned back to Benny with a different look on her face. —Don’t you want to sit down somewhere? she said.

—He never talked about me, did he. And why should you care, what would it matter to you? And why should I care now, why should I want to see him, because anyhow everything’s different now. And it’s all different for him too, isn’t it. Why should I want to see him now, any more than . . . why should we have even worked together then, what . . . because everything’s different now, I’m fine now, I’m getting along fine, and is he? What’s he doing
now? Is he happy now? Is he getting along fine, like I am? Did everything change for him too, so that . . . Is he doing what he wanted to do now? or like me, is he doing what he can do, what he has to do . . .

—Why don’t you just sit down here? Esther said as they reached the couch. —Can I bring you some coffee? She hesitated, and turned away.

—That’s funny. That’s funny, Benny said, sitting down slowly. —But you didn’t tell me what he’s doing now. That’s funny. God. Benny blew his nose, and looked round him. He saw the back of his own flannel suit, and heard the voice of the man in it saying, —It’s not really my line of work, I’m really a sort of historian, a musicologist, you might say, but I’ve been trying to get permission from the city to operate a public toilet concession in New York . . . Could you hand me those crackers?

The woman in the collapsed maternity dress said to someone, —And you see that person in the green shirt, you see that scar on his nose? Well I understand that he had his nose bobbed, an expensive plastic surgeon did it and some girl paid for it, didn’t leave a mark, and then one night when he was in
bed
a radio fell off the shelf and gave him that scar, there’s poetic justice . . . heh, heh heh heh . . .

—What’s his name?

—Him? It’s . . . I can’t think of it, but it’s one of those nice names, you know the kind they take, like White, White is a good nigger name.

Nearby, Mr. Crotcher had settled into an armchair, and begun moaning accompaniment to a harpsichord fraction of the
Harmonious Blacksmith
. He stopped to look down, and say, —Good heavens, good heavens, where did
you
come from? Get away. You’re going to have an accident, get away, getaway getaway getaway . . . The baby, with a welt rising on its forehead, had begun to climb up his leg. Out of sight, the girl with bandaged wrists was saying, —After all, this is its first birthday, so this is kind of a birthday party for it too . . .

—Started to call himself Jacques San-jay when he went into interior decorating, someone said. —I knew him when his name was Jack Singer.

—So after that, the old man left me with nothing but fifty tons of sugar that I can’t unload, and they’re forcing me to take delivery. Do you think Esther would mind storing it here?

—Yess, said the dark man in the sharkskin suit, —I was told that the stock market in New York was a complex affair.

—Maybe I ought to have it dumped on the old man’s doorstep.
Chr-ahst, after a trick like that. Now all I have to do is sell one of his God-damned battleships . . .

—Ah? How fortunate, said the shark-skinned Argentine. —For a moment I thought I was at the wrong party.

—Dear God
no
, the tall woman was saying, —my husband hasn’t got any friends. He doesn’t have the time.

—Well look, it’s obvious to any thinking person. The Swiss have banks all over the world. What’s more necessary to a successful war than banks?

Mr. Feddle, concentrating on an open book (it was Frothingham’s Aratos) was bumped aside by someone looking for an encyclopedia. —Got to look up a mutt named Chavenay. Sounds French.

—You have to really live there to understand why France has turned out so many great thinkers, and artists, a girl said. —Just live there for awhile and get a load of what they have to revolt against, and anybody would be great.

The boy who had got an advance on his novel said, —I wanted to sort of celebrate, but what the hell. Where are the nice places? They’re all business lunchrooms, do you know what I mean? Expense accounts. They’re all supported by expense accounts. It’s depressing as hell.

—But my dear boy, why should all this bother you? said the tall woman, who had appeared. —
You
don’t have to eat in these places all the time. Look at my husband, he
has
to.

—I know. But it’s depressing as hell, where can you celebrate?

—I’d suggest Nedick’s, said the tall woman.

—I’d suggest Murti-Bing, said the young man with no novel to advance.

—Oh, where is that? said the tall woman. —I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten there.

—Fifty million tons of food a year eaten in New York, what does that
mean?

—Something terrible happened, Stanley. Agnes put her hand on his.

—I’m sorry, Stanley said. —If you’ll just give me my glasses . . .

—No, dear, I’m not talking about that, and that was so long ago, that night . . . She was looking in her purse. —Here, she said, —you’ll have to read it yourself. What am I going to do, Stanley? Her hand shook as she dragged the letter from her bag. —It was a terrible thing to do, an unforgivable thing to do to this poor man but he’s got to forgive me, and how can I . . . what can I do to . . . so he will?

Stanley unfolded the letter from the Police Department; and
Agnes felt a gentle tap on the shoulder, and turned. —Did you see a kitty-cat here, lady?

—Why there was a kitten here somewhere, Agnes said, looking round her, —but I guess the kitty-cat has gone to bed. What are you doing up so late?