The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (20 page)

—Esther . . .

—I just couldn’t stop reading it, she said. He had her, supporting her with one arm.

—But what . . . why . . .

—Are you here now? she said, looking at him, into his eyes.

The music stopped, and the automatic arm lifted, paused, returned to the grooves it had just left. He reached over and turned it off.

—Wyatt . . . ?

—I thought you were asleep, I just went out to get this, he said, holding up a bottle of brandy. He looked down quickly at his table, at the undisturbed plans and the books there. —I thought you were asleep, he repeated, looking at her. Then he saw what she had in her hand. —That, he said taking it from her, —what are you reading it for, it . . . it’s just something I found here, here in this old book of Aunt May’s. It’s nothing, it’s just something . . . He set the brandy down on the table. —Something she made me copy out.

He had no coat, and was dressed in a black suit. The bones in his face were smaller than Esther’s. His hair was cut short, and his skull looked almost square. —Esther? . . . She put her arms around him. —Come to bed.

The dream recurs.

—Darling . . . the same one?

—Yes. The same. Exactly the same.

She thinks then, Perhaps . . .

—It doesn’t really hurt, there isn’t any pain and there aren’t any flames, but just that my hair is burning . . .

Perhaps the consecration has not taken place yet after all, and the substance is still there, caught up in accident, waiting. Bedded in
darkness she drew him over, and sweating he performed, and lay back, silent, inert, distant. —There are some cigarettes on the dresser, she said. He walked there in the dark, found them and lit one, sitting on the edge of the bed he smoked.

—Wyatt?

—What.

—How are you?

—Fine.

—I mean how do you feel?

—Empty, he answered.

She said nothing, but pretended sleep. After minutes of sitting abandoned he turned open the disrupted covers, and was asleep before she was, dwelling close up against the exposure of her back.

The lust of summer gone, the sun made its visits shorter and more uncertain, appearing to the city with that discomfited reserve that sense of duty of the lover who no longer loves.

Then, as someone in a steam-heated room (it was a woman named Agnes) said while mixing gin with sweet vermouth, —Christmas is almost down our throats.

In another apartment, a tall woman put down the telephone and said to her husband, —A party. I did hope we’d get to the Narcissus Festival this year. The Hawaii one.

On Madison Avenue, two deer hung before a shop by their hind feet, bellies split and paper rosettes planted under their tails.

On Second Avenue, a girl in a south-bound bus (her surname appeared 963 times in the Bronx directory) said, —But he don’t even know my name. —Who don’t? —The lipstick man, he was in today. I found out he’s single. —Is he hansome? —He’s not really hansome, he’s more what you might say inneresting looking. With my hair and my complexion he says I ought to wear teeshans red. My favorite movie star . . .

On First Avenue, a girl in a north-bound bus (who used the same lipstick as her favorite movie star) said, —My doctor told me to ride this bus, he says maybe that’ll bring it on.

In a Lexington Avenue bar, a man in a Santa Claus suit said, —Hey Barney, let’s have one here, first one today. The bartender was saying —It’s just the same as in Brooklyn, irregardless . . . —That’s what I say, if you serve food you gotta have a rest room for ladies as well as men. A woman said, —Where do you come from? —Out on Long Island, Jamaica. —Jewmaica you mean. —Yeh? So where do you come from. —Never mind. —Yeh, never mind, I know where, it’s nothing but a bunch of Portuguese and Syssirians up where you come from up there.

—Hey Barney, let’s have another one here.

—OK Pollyotch, the woman called to Santa Claus.

—Hey Barney . . .

—Hey Pollyotch, don’t start singin your ladonnamobilay in here.

—I need this drink like I need a hole in the head, said Santa Claus, interrupting the young man beside him who was staring at a dollar bill pinned on the wall, a sign which said,
If you drive your
FATHER
to drink drive him here
, and his own image in the mirror. He turned and nodded agreement. —You know what I mean? What’s your name? —Otto. —You know what I mean, Otto? Otto held up his beer glass, half emptied, and nodded. —Can I buy you a drink Otto?

—He tole me ahedda time he’s gonna get drunk, the woman said.

—Who’s kiddin who?

—Some people never learn.

—Listen to this guy you’ll go crazy.

—Can I buy you a drink?

—No, thank you, really. I feel just the way you do. I’m just waiting.

—You won’t drink with me, hunh? You won’t drink with me . . . ?

—Hey Pollyotch . . .

—Like I say, it’s just like in Brooklyn, irregardless . . .

The juke-box came to life, and played
The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise
.

Fruit stores were busy. Taxi drivers were busy. Trains were crowded, in both directions. Accident wards were inundated. Psychoanalysts received quivering visits from old clients. Newspaper reporters dug up and wrote at compassionate length of gas-filled rooms, Christmas tree fires and blood shed under mistletoe, puppydogs hung in stockings and cats hung in telephone wires, in what were called human interest stories.

—Do I know him? We was like we was married together for four months, said a girl on Third Avenue. —I’m going to give him a presint this year, just for spite.

It rained; then it snowed, and the snow stayed on the paved ground for long enough to become evenly blackened with soot and smoke-fall, evenly but for islands of yellow left by uptown dogs. Then it rained again, and the whole creation was transformed into cold slop, which made walking adventuresome. Then it froze; and every corner presented opportunity for entertainment, the vastly amusing spectacle of well-dressed people suspended in the indecorous positions which precede skull fractures.

—Who made the first one? Will somebody tell me that? said The Boss at an office party in a suite at the Astor Hotel. His stiff dickey
stood out like a jib as he flew before the winds of First Cause. —You may not have thought I’m a very religious guy, but I’ll just ask that one question.
Who made the first one?
Then he dropped his glass on the carpet.

In a large private house on East Seventy-fourth Street, the girls entertained their gentlemen friends at a champagne breakfast. The gentlemen were away from home on business: at home, their aging children opened gifts bought by efficient secretaries, asked embarrassing questions, and were confounded to receive answers which common sense had told them all the time; they stared at their gifts, and awkwardly accepted this liberation from infancy, made privy to the reciprocal deceits which as children they had been taught to call lies. Miles away here, Daddy smiled munificently as the girl in the new housecoat (“Who gave you
that?
”) said, —And even with my own name on it and all. Are they real di-mins?

Hundreds of thousands of doors closed upon as many single young women in single rooms: there, furnished with the single bed, the lamp, the chair, bookcase full of encouragement, radio, telephone, life stepped tacitly and took her where she never saw the sun. Who would send flowers? Not him! And relatives again? A handkerchief from a cold-nosed aunt. She telephoned her mother in Grand Rapids, and was surprised to note that Mother seemed to have been weeping even before she answered the telephone. The radio, unattended, played
The Origin of Design
. And she still had her hair to put up. Flub-a-dub-dub, she washed her girdle in the basin, singing alto accompaniment to the Christmas carols on another station. Every hour on the hour consciousness blanked, while the disembodied voice spoke with respectful disinterest of train wrecks, casualties in a far-off war, the doings of a president, an actress, a murderer; and then suddenly warm, human, confidential (if disembodied still) of under-arm odor. Hark the herald angels sing! she sang (alto) accompanying the body-odor song which followed very much the same tune. Flub-a-dub-dub went the girdle in the basin while she sang, not too loudly, fearful of missing something, of missing the telephone’s ring. —Glory to the new-born King! she sang, waiting for the lipstick man.

As it has been, and apparently ever shall be, gods, superseded, become the devils in the system which supplants their reign, and stay on to make trouble for their successors, available, as they are, to a few for whom magic has not despaired, and been superseded by religion.

Holy things and holy places, out of mind under the cauterizing brilliance of the summer sun, reared up now as the winter sun struck from the south, casting shadows coldly up the avenues where
the people followed and went in, wearing winter hearts on their sleeves for the plucking. Slightly offended by Bach and Palestrina, short memories reached back, struggling toward Origen, that most extraordinary Father of the Church, whose third-century enthusiasm led him to castrate himself so that he might repeat the
hoc est corpus meum, Dominus
, without the distracting interference of the rearing shadow of the flesh. They looked; but he was nowhere about, so well had he done his work, and the churches were so crowded that many were forced to suffer the Birth in cocktail lounges, and bars. So well had Origen succeeded, sowing his field without a seed, that the conspiracy, conceived in light, born, bred in darkness, and harassed to maturity in dubious death and rapturous martyrdom, continued.
Miserere nobis
, said the mitered lips.
Vae victis
, the statistical heart.

Tragedy was foresworn, in ritual denial of the ripe knowledge that we are drawing away from one another, that we share only one thing, share the fear of belonging to another, or to others, or to God; love or money, tender equated in advertising and the world, where only money is currency, and under dead trees and brittle ornaments prehensile hands exchange forgeries of what the heart dare not surrender.

—Hey Barney, let’s have another here. First today.

—Hey Pollyotch, the woman called. —Hey Sanny Claus.

—Why don’t you drop dead?

—Don’t give me none of your hocus pocus.

—Yeh . . .

—And who are you going to be miserable with New Year’s Eve? asked Mrs. Bildow on the telephone. Esther, at the other end of the line, accepted this kind invitation for herself and her husband.

Mrs. Bildow laid the instrument back in its cradle and looked out the window of the sidewalk-level apartment. She could see four legs. —Don, she called. —Do you think she’s all right with him? What’s his name, Anselm? Outside, the four legs retreated, out of her sight.

It was a dark afternoon. To the north, the sky was almost black. Anselm rounded the corner with the little girl by the hand. He stopped there, met by a friend. —Hey Anselm, I’ve got one you’d like, old man.

—One what?

—Is it all right to kiss a nun?

—What do you mean, for Christ’s sake?

—Sure it’s all right, as long as you don’t get into the habit.

—Ha, hahahaha . . . Anselm turned his thin face down to the
little girl. She looked up. He had a bad case of acne. —Hahahahaha . . .

—I knew you’d like that.

Anselm nodded, and looked serious again, as he had rounding the corner. He looked wistful.

—What’s the matter with you, anyway?

—Afternoons like this, Anselm commenced, looking to the dark sky between the buildings to the north, —afternoons like this, he repeated, —I think about girls.

—Happy New Year, if you’ll pardon the expression.

—Goodbye Esther, tell your husband . . .

—Good night, I . . .

—Happy New Year, if you’re sure you can’t come? . . .

—No, Esther’s voice came back on the smoke with theirs, —we’ve decided to go to a little Spanish place Wyatt knows about, just the two of us, good night and thanks, happy New Year.

—Good night . . .

—And happy New Year, I . . .

Then the smoke in the room stopped moving, the door closed on the draft, and the room hung with silence; until Esther came back in, moving the smoke around her, and speaking, —Well, that’s over. She stood unsteadily.

—If you wanted to go to their party, Esther . . .

—Party? . . . It’s always so frightening we thought we’d just hide at home this year, that’s what she said. If you call that a party.

—I wouldn’t have minded staying here, if you’d wanted to . . .

—Go alone?

—Well, I . . . there’s some work I wanted to finish.

—Work, she repeated dully.

—The woman called about that picture in there, it’s all done, it just needs a coat of varnish.

—You were varnishing it when we came in.

—Yes, I did a little . . . as a matter of fact it’s done, he admitted.

Esther sat slowly against the edge of a table. The brightness of her eyes fluctuated, glimmering to dull, as she fixed them on him and away. Finally she said, —It was like you were trying to . . . escape. He started a motion with his hand, but did not make a sound nor look up from the chair he sat in. —I didn’t think you’d mind, they’re not . . . they’re a nice couple, and the boy with them . . .

—Who was he?

—I’ve never met him, his name’s Otto something. He just showed
up, he said he’d been at a party uptown, at some playwright’s house, he left when it got too noisy and some woman kept calling him Pagliacci . . . you liked him, didn’t you.

—Yes, he was . . . he’s quite young, isn’t he.

—You might have offered brandy to someone else, besides just him. And yourself, she added. Her idle hand reached the new typewriter on the table, a Christmas gift (she had given him an electric razor), and her finger made a speculative stab at a key she would never use: she looked at the paper, where she had imprinted ã. —Poor Don, you might have been a little nicer . . .

—Nicer? I talked to him, I tried to talk to him.

—I heard you, I heard you saying . . .

—Did you hear him? . . . An extensive leisure is necessary for any society to evolve an at all extensive religious ritual . . . did you hear all that? . . . You will find that the rationalists took over Plato’s state
qua
state, which of course left no room for the artist, as a creative figure he is always a disturbing element which threatens the status
quo
 . . . good God, Esther. Did you hear us discussing quiddity? and Schopenhauer’s
Transcendental Speculations on Apparent Design in the Fate of the Individual?
and right into the Greek skeptics . . .