The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (36 page)

I’m going down to Dutch Siam’s, yes I am
 . . .

Then someone said loudly what everyone had been suspecting. —There’s no more to drink. The room quieted. Even the eyeless
noseless chickenless egg was abandoned, as its chorister struggled to an optimistically vertical position against the bookcase.

—Oh God, said Agnes Deigh. —Give me my bag will you darling? she asked an anonymous trouser seat, pulling at the coat which hung above but did not match. She handed a folded twenty-dollar bill to a boy wearing her racing colors and stood, saying —I’ve got to go to the can anyhow, where is it?

Hannah had been watching her. She felt in the pockets of the deep-seated denim pants, came up with nothing, and said, —What time is it? to Max, probably the only other sober person in the room.

—Three-fifteen, said Max, for whom time was also a matter of the clock.

She sniffed, as with a personal grievance. —It’s disgusting, giving a string of Mozart operas as benefits so they can buy new scenery for
The Ring
. Mozart pimping for Wagner. And that old bag, she added, —with her Mickey Mouse watch. Then she looked down the room and asked, —Who’s that skinny girl on the couch, with that . . . Otto?

—She writes poems, her name’s Esme. I think she’s been modeling for some painter. She hasn’t got any stomach.

—I’ve heard about her, Hannah muttered. —On the needle. A schiz.

—Manic depressive, schizoid tendencies, Max elaborated. —Has anybody ever seen her child?

—Child? She’s a mother, her? She’s too fucking spiritual.

—She says she has one four years old.

—Christ. And look at Herschel, he’s simple, but Stanley, this thing he has on the Church, that’s why he’s stuck on that old bag with the Mickey Mouse watch, he wants to bring her back to the Church he thinks. I wish he’d get off it.

—I wish he didn’t smell, said Max. —I’ve told you before, he’s an oral type. But if you want a real obsessive neurosis look at this, he said nodding to where Anselm approached on hands and knees, a beatific expression on his blemished face. —Have you read any of his poetry? I don’t see why Bildow takes it.

—Why shouldn’t he smell? Anselm demanded from below. —He doesn’t wash.

—Screw, will you Anselm? Hannah said, with a step toward Stanley.

—What did Saint Jerome say? “Does your skin roughen without the bath?”

—Screw.

—“Who is once washed in the blood of Christ need not wash again.”

Hannah reached Stanley and took his arm. —Don’t you want to leave? Come on, I’ll walk you as far as the subway.

—Yes . . . in a minute, he said looking down at the warm indentations Agnes Deigh had left in the chair.

Hannah muttered something. She was staring at Esme again, and suddenly said to Max, —She looks like she thinks she
is
a painting. Like an oil you’re not supposed to get too close to.

—She’s high right now, can’t you see it? She’s been on for three days.

Hannah snorted, and took Stanley’s arm again. —Coming?

He looked down to see someone tugging at his trouser leg. —What kind of an ass-backwards Catholic are you? asked Anselm from the floor.

—Why . . . why . . .

—Shut up, Anselm, said Hannah. —For Christ sake, go home and take a nap.

—For Christ sake, you say to me! What do you know about Christ?

—Take a nap.

—Well I can’t. Do you know why? Because of Christ. Because when I lie down and feel my hands against my own body, that’s all I can think of, that thin body of Christ. I can feel it, with my own hands. Does that interest you?

—Please . . . said Stanley.

—Not a God-damned bit, said Hannah.

—Well don’t try to talk to me about Christ then, said Anselm, and started away. Then he turned his head back to them. —Do you know who went around like this? Do you know that Saint Teresa went around on all fours, with a basket of stones on her back? and a halter? That’s the ritu quadrupedis, if you think it’s so God damn funny don’t you. And do you know what Christ said to her? “If I had not already created Heaven, I would create it for thy sake alone.” Don’t try to talk to me about Christ, he said, and went toward the other end of the room, quadrupedis. Stanley stood still; and Hannah turned from him angrily.

Herschel was still propped against the bookcase, where he had left himself a while before. Hannah’s approach woke him to a look of fear and no understanding. —By now you probably don’t even know what your name is, she said, her tone merciless sobriety.

—Hannah . . .

—No. I’m Hannah, and who are you? He stumbled past her to the other side of the room and interrupted Ed Feasley, who was
telling Adeline that the literal translation of the German word for surrender,
niederlage
, is to lie under.

—Adeline, said Herschel. —
Baby
, drawing his breath through his open mouth, liquidly audible. —Is your name really Adeline? I had a nurse once named Adeline, a west black woman Adeline. One day I bit her right square under the apple tree. What do you think of that?

The white Adeline thought enough of it to stand away from him. Herschel swung before her, like a man whose feet were grounded on springs. —Is your name really Adeline? he pled, now with such insistence that if she would answer, or even allow the affirmative by silence, it would legitimize anything to follow. But the door opened upon them, and four late arrivals appeared, hazy-eyed, with willowy movements, the three boys unshaven and the girl unclean, smelling like lives from the swamp. —We’ve been having a ball, man, one of them said. —Have you got any tea?

A policeman, his tunic unbuttoned, appeared in the doorway to announce loudly that he had had a call from headquarters to answer a complaint at this address . . . a party . . . too much noise . . . have to quiet down . . . and could somebody get me another drink?

Otto took Esme’s arm and helped her up, almost using that arm which lay helpless in the sling. He recovered enough of his wit to say, —May I take you home? Now you’re supposed to say, Sure, where do you live? Esme looked up, smiled pleasantly, blankly. She did not understand; and sophistry, confronted by simplicity, was lost. —It seems like we’ve always been just here, she said.

Someone appeared before Otto with a manila envelope. —Here’s the story, the one you said you’d send to your friend on a magazine for me, he said, and disappeared.

Herschel stood mumbling to himself. All sense of humor was gone, all sense of anything. His eyes, looking and finding nothing, had stopped seeking and lay open and empty. Only when Hannah reappeared, reflected in their glassy surface, they clouded. —Now I suppose you want to get your tattoo? she said. He nodded helplessly. —Herschel, don’t be such a fool. Go back to analysis. Do you think a tattoo will solve everything?

—Hannah . . . baby . . .

—What are you going to have tattooed on you, anyhow? Names? Pictures?

—Leave me alone, he whispered.

A discussion of fierce intellectual intensity continued in one corner. Someone had said that everyone knew that Tennyson was a Jew. In the middle of the room two young men met. —I thought
you’d gone home, one said. The other embraced him. —I was waiting for someone to ask me. The Swede sat on the windowsill, head in his hands. —Those horrid horrid vulgar labels, all over my bags, he sobbed. —But I could hear them laughing behind the door, behind the locked door, I could hear them laughing . . . The flat girl said, —Aren’t you going to say good night to our host? And her escort, a full-blown woman, said, —God no, I never speak to
him
.

Agnes Deigh returned, straightening her skirt and loosening her waist. Then there was Stanley’s voice saying, —No, I promised I’d go home with Hannah, the tone of the seven-year-old’s loyalty to the squat and eternal mother. A boy in a bow tie thanked Agnes Deigh for the party, and she cried, —Darling it wasn’t
my
party, I’m leaving too. Will you take me home? As she went out she stopped with Max, who stood smiling under the forgotten scars of the Workman’s Soul. —There’s somebody in the can darling, she said, —somebody passed out in the tub, somebody I’ve never seen before. You’d better go in and look at him, there’s blood all over the place.

At their feet squatted the late guests, smoking something the size of a thumbnail which they passed among them, like a pitiful encampment of outcast Indians satisfying the wrong hunger. —This stuff doesn’t really affect me, one said, —but don’t you notice that the ceiling is getting closer?

The policeman who had been making faces put down an empty glass, and woke up his buddy. They left.

Otto felt strange, holding her thin wrist: that Esme could give all and lose nothing, for the taker would find she had given nothing; plundering her, the plunderer would turn to find himself empty, and she still silently offering. When she looked up, he was lost to himself as though the woman in that painting had turned her unchanging eyes on his helplessness, and he looked away from her eyes, at the straight darkness of her hair, and cowardly, down at her ringless fingers. Her eyes embarrassed him with their beauty, all at once as she showed them.

—Whore! said a voice at their feet, throaty, breathing heavily, as if there were indeed a load of stones on his back. Then in a clear hard voice Anselm called Esme a name which fell from his mouth like a round stone, and seemed to strike the floor and remain. She looked down at him. —Come on. Look out, Otto said, pulling her away. But she stood, for all her delicacy, firm, and smiling. —Anselm, she said, her voice gentle and quenching as she repeated the name. —Anselm.

—Succubus, said Anselm, his voice deep in his throat again.
—
Ssuc
cubus, he hissed. —Devil in a woman’s body, to lead a man in vile sin, abominable lusts, carnal pleasures, blasphemy, the filthy delights of copulation. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think no one knows? Not for your own delectation, you get no pleasure from it, only to corrupt and pollute the soul and body of a mortal man. Succubus to a man, incubus to a woman . . . He reared his acned chin.

—Come on, Esme, said Otto. —Let’s get out of here. But she stood, charmed, still gently smiling.

—Go home and read Saint Augustine.
On the Trinity
, said Anselm, turning his thin face up to Otto. —There you’ll find that devils do indeed collect human seed. Not for delectation. Succubus to a man, incubus to a woman. Damn you, damn you, damn you. If devils fell from every rank, those who fell from the lowest choir are deputed to perform these abominations, these filthy delights. Not for delectation. Do you know about the monk Helias, and how the angels answered his prayers by castrating him? Do you know about Saint Victor?

Otto had moved Esme toward the door, where the Swede stood sobbing —Behind the locked door, I could hear them laughing . . .

Then Otto turned, feeling something spray on him. Anselm had flung up a hand wet with beer, and was shuddering, —I exorcise thee, unclean spirit, in the name of Jesus Christ; tremble, O Satan, thou enemy of the faith, thou foe of mankind, who hast brought death into the world . . . He gasped; and in that moment Otto heard clearly from across the room, in Max’s voice:

—I’d say he was a latent heterosexual, and looked up to find Max’s eyes upon him. He stood trapped for an instant in Max’s smiling eyes, then sought others, saw Stanley sunk against a chair watching Anselm.

—Thou seducer of mankind, thou root of evil, thou source of avarice, discord, and envy . . .

—Esme, come on. He pulled her arm.

—Hey Stanley, Anselm called suddenly over his shoulder, —who’s this coon with your girl? Hey Stanley, I am one, sir, that comes to tell you . . .

—Esme . . .

—Your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

—Damn it . . .

—Now be nice . . . the Swede whispered through his tears.

—For Christ sake Anselm . . .

—Go home and fornicate, came from the floor. —Only know that
God for His own glory permits devils to work against His will. For His own glory . . .

And then a crash.

They looked to see Hannah getting up from the floor, and Max went to help her. Herschel stumbled and fell against a chair, where his whole body shook, heaving from its shallow depths. —I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it any more. She asked me who I was, and I told her and she said How do you know who that is, is it anybody at all and . . . Oh God,
Christ
, I hate hitting somebody I don’t like.

On the floor before the fireplace lay the funeral spray, lifted gaily from the door of a bereaved Italian family downstairs, trampled so that its wires stood out naked. Time had been there. The garden which one had thought could not grow, had risen in rank luxuriance, like the plants on that plantation abandoned. For even bananas must be cut and hung to mature properly; left on the stalk, they swell and burst open, attract insects, develop an unpleasant taste, beyond the bounds of cultivation, beyond the plantation, in the jungle, where in the art of evil their near relatives, the orchids, blossom, not questioning the distant Greeks on how they got their name, deriving innocently from the devil’s residence in man: that part which the ange’s cut from the monk Helias. Otto led Esme forth, and at the stairs she drew him down.

“Father,” he asked, “are the rich people stronger than anyone else on earth?” “Yes, Ilusha,” I said. “There are no people on earth stronger than the rich.” “Father,” he said, “I will get rich, I will become an officer and conquer everybody. The Tsar will reward me, I will come back here and then no one will dare . . .” Then he was silent and his lips still kept trembling. “Father,” he said, “what a horrid town this is.”

—Dostoevski,
The Brothers Karamazov

“Why has not man a microscopic eye?” writes Alexander Pope; “For this plain reason: man is not a fly.” What of Argus, equipped with one hundred eyes to watch over the king’s daughter turned into a heifer by a jealous goddess; how many images of the heifer did he see? how many leaves to the bracken where she browsed? And after the death of Argus (his eyes transplanted to the peacock’s tail), this wretched heifer, the metamorphosis of Io, was visited by a gadfly sent by the jealous goddess, and driven frenzied across frontiers until she reached the Nile. What did the gadfly see? And Argus, suffering the distraction of one hundred eyes: did he sit steady? or move distracted from distraction by distraction, like the housefly now dashing and retreating in frenzy against the windowpane, drawn to a new destination the instant it halted, from the shade-pull to the floor, from there to the lampshade, back to the baffling window glass. No Argus, this miserable Diptera, despite its marvelous eyes guardian of nothing; for where was the heifer? Below, perhaps. From the high ceiling the housefly careened to the molding across the room, thence to the lampshade, to a green muffler, a pair of socks on the floor, and so to the sleeping face which it attended with custodial devotion, until the blinking unmicroscopic eyes came open, and Otto lay awake.