The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (54 page)

—Esme!

—People take me there, she said. And by now they were at the door of the Viareggio, a small Italian bar of nepotistic honesty before it was discovered by exotics. Neighborhood folk still came, in small vanquished numbers and mostly in the afternoon, before the two small dining rooms and the bar were taken over by the educated classes, an ill-dressed, underfed, overdrunken group of squatters with minds so highly developed that they were excused from good manners, tastes so refined in one direction that they were excused for having none in any other, emotions so cultivated that the only aberration was normality, all afloat here on sodden pools of depravity calculated only to manifest the pricelessness of what they were throwing away, the three sexes in two colors, a group of people all mentally and physically the wrong size.

Smoke and the human voice made one texture, knitting together these people for whom Dante had rejuvenated Hell six centuries before. The conversation was of an intellectual intensity forgotten since Laberius recommended to a character in one of his plays to get a foretaste of philosophy in the public latrine. There were poets here who painted; painters who criticized music; composers who reviewed novels; unpublished novelists who wrote poetry: but a
poet
entering might recall Petrarch finding the papal court at Avignon a “sewer of every vice, where virtue is regarded as proof
of stupidity, and prostitution leads to fame.” Petrarch, though, had reason to be irritated, his sister seduced by a pope: none here made such a claim, though many would have dared had they thought of it, even, and the more happily, those with younger brothers.

—Is that really Ernest Hemingway over there? someone said as they entered. —Where? —Over there at the bar, that big guy, he needs a shave, see? he’s thanking that man for a drink, see him?

—I suppose you’d call me a positive negativist, said someone else.

—Max seems to have a good sense of spatial values, said a youth on their right, weaving aside to allow Esme to pass, —but his solids can’t compare, say, with the solids in Uccello. And where is abstract without solids, I ask you?

While Otto looked dartingly for Max, Esme entered with flowing ease, and pleasure lighting her thin face as she smiled to one person after another with gracious familiarity. —There he is, Otto said, as they sat down. The juke-box was playing
Return to Sorrento
. Otto adjusted his sling, and smoothed his mustache. Esme sat, looking out over this spectral tide with the serenity of a woman in a painting; and often enough, like gallery-goers, the faces turned to look at her stared with vacuity until, unrecognized, self-consciousness returned, and they looked away, one to say, —I know
her
, but God knows who
he
is; another to say, —She was locked up for months, a couple of years ago; and another to listen to the joke about Carruthers and his horse.

At Max’s table, among his and six other elbows, a number of wet beer glasses, a book titled
Twit Twit Twit
and a copy of Mother Goose, lay
The Vanity of Time
. Max rose, and came over with it.

—What did you think of it? Otto asked, pleasantly, not getting up. He rescued the pages, and wiped off a couple of spots which were still wet.

—Well Otto, it’s good, Max said doubtfully.

—But what? What did you think?

—Well, I’ll tell you the truth. It was funny sometimes, reading it. Like I’d read it before. There were lines in it . . .

—You mean
you
think it’s plagiarized? Otto named the word.

—Well, Max said, laughing like a friend.

—Look, you had it out, I mean, at the table. Did they . . . I mean, did all those other people see it?

—They were looking at it. I didn’t think you’d mind, and you see, I did want to ask them what they thought, about . . . recognizing it.

—Well? Otto opened his dispatch case, turning it away from view so that it was not apparent that the play went in to join its duplicates.

—What did they think? Pretty much the same thing, I think, Max admitted. —George said he felt like he could almost go right on with one of the . . . one of the lines. And Agnes . . .

—Agnes Deigh? You mean you talked to
her
about it?

—Well, it came up in conversation. I was up at her office this morning, talking with her about my novel. It’s coming out in the spring. She’s trying to arrange the French rights now.

—But what did you think it was plagiarized
from
, if you’re all so sure I stole it.

—Nobody said you’d stolen it, Otto. It was just that some of the lines were a little . . . familiar.

—Yes but from
what?

—That’s the funny thing, nobody could figure it out, one of us would be just about to say, and then we couldn’t put our finger on it. But don’t worry about it, Otto. It’s a good play. Then he straightened up, taking his hands from the table where he’d rested them, and said, —I’m showing some pictures this week, can you come to the opening?

—Yes, but . . .

—Thanks for letting me read it, Otto . . .

—There was one line I borrowed, I mean I put it in just to try it out . . . Otto called after him, but Max was gone to his table, where he talked to the people seated with him. They looked up at Otto.

Esme ate quietly, across from Otto’s silent fury, weighted now to sullenness with four glasses of whisky, before his veal and peppers had appeared.

—Hello Charles, Esme said looking up, kindly. —You look very well tonight. Charles smiled wanly. Silver glittered in his hair. His wrists were bandaged, his glass empty. —Do you want my glass of beer, Charles? Because I can’t drink it. She handed it to him, and murmuring something, without a look at Otto, he left.

—Really, Esme.

—What is it, Otto? she said brightly.

—Well I mean, I can’t buy beer for everybody in the place.

She smiled to him. —That’s because you don’t want to, she said.

—You’re damned right I don’t, he said, looking round, and back at his plate.

—Of course I know it’s near Christmas, said someone behind him. —For Christ’s sake, what do you want me to do about it, light up?

There was a yelp from the end of the bar; and a few, who suspected it of being inhuman, turned to see a dachshund on a tight leash recover its hind end from a cuspidor. The Big Unshaven Man
stepped aside. —I’m God-damned sorry, he said. —Oh, said the boy on the other end of the leash, —Mister Hemingway, could I buy you a drink? You are Ernest Hemingway aren’t you?

—My friends call me Ernie, said the Big Unshaven Man, and turning to the bar, —a double martini, boy.

Though the place appeared crowded beyond capacity, more entered from the street outside, crying greetings, trampling, excusing themselves with grunts, struggling toward the bar.

—Elixir of terpin hydrate with codein in a little grapefruit juice, it tastes just like orange Curaçao. What do you think I was a pharmacist’s mate for.

—When I was in the Navy we drank Aqua Velva, that shaving stuff. You could buy all you wanted on shipboard.

—Yeah? Well did you ever drink panther piss? the liquid fuel out of torpedoes?

The juke-box was playing
Return to Sorrento
. A boy with a sharp black beard sat down beside Esme. —Have you got any tea? he asked her. She shook her head, and looked up at Otto, who had not heard, had not in fact even noticed the person sitting half behind him. —Sometimes I really hate Max, he said, then noticed the beard. —I mean, I mistrust him. There were no introductions. —That poor bastard, said the beard. —He’s really had it, man. So has she.

—Who? Otto asked incuriously.

—His girl, she’s getting a real screwing. She wanted to marry him last year but she wanted him to be analyzed first. Max didn’t have any money so she paid for it. Now his analyst says he’s in love with her for all the neurotic reasons in the book. It don’t jive, man. He’s through with her but he can’t leave her because he can’t stop his analysis.

—Does she know it?

—Who, Edna? She . . .

—Edna who?

—Edna Mims, she’s a blonde from uptown. He used to bring her down here to shock her, and then take her home and ball her . . .

—
Edna?
said Otto, unable to swallow. —With
him?

Everyone silenced for a moment at a scream of brakes outside, anticipating the satisfaction of a resounding crash. They were disappointed. Instead, as their conglomerate conversation rose again, Ed Feasley rode in upon its swell. Behind him a blonde adjusting a garter followed with choppy steps like a dory pulled in the wake of a yawl on a rough sea. —Get a drink, was all Ed Feasley could say, as he sat down at Otto’s table.

Mr. Feddle was there. He stood with difficulty, his hand on the hip of a tall light-haired girl, her delicately modeled face and New
England accent manifest of good breeding. —His mother is the sweetest little Boston woman, she said, —
awfully
interested in dogs,
awfully
anti-vivisection. They were looking at Anselm, who looked about to drop to his knees. Behind her, Don Bildow said, —He is an excellent poet, when he tries. He’s been taking care of my daughter when we’re out, my wife and I. I haven’t looked at another woman since we were married. Then with his hand on the man’s-shirted shoulder of the light-haired girl, —Do you find me attractive?

The beard at Otto’s table said, —Is that Hemingway? Ed Feasley looked over at the Big Unshaven Man, who had just said, —No queer in history ever produced great art. Feasley looked vague, but said, —There’s something familiar about him.

—That’s the damnedest thing I ever heard, Otto said, looking at Max, partially recovered. He motioned for another drink. When he had finished it he said, —I’ve got to make a phone call. I may have to go to Peru and northern Bolivia.

—Tonight? said Feasley. —You going to fly down? I’d like to go with you, but . . . say, if you can wait until tomorrow afternoon

. . . I’ve got to go to a wedding tomorrow, but . . .

—No, I mean I’ve just got to call my father now, Otto said casually as though he had known that man all his life.

—Say hello to the old bastard for me, Ed Feasley called after him.

Otto called, made a rendezvous for a week later with the anxious voice at the other end of the line. They would meet in the lobby of a midtown hotel, at eight (—If you’ll wear that green scarf I sent you for Christmas two years ago, Otto, I have one just like it. We’ll know each other that way. And I wear glasses . . . said the voice, murmuring, after the telephone at the other end of the line was hung up, —Should I have said
rimless
glasses?). Otto had agreed quickly, he didn’t know where his green muffler was but to push the thing further would have been too much, bad enough to need recourse to such a device to know your own father.

There were seven people at the table when he returned to it. The painters could be identified by dirty fingernails; the writers by conversation in labored monosyllables and aggressive vulgarities which disguised their minds. —Yeh, I’m doing a psychoanalysis of it, said one of them, tapping Mother Goose on the table.

—I tell you, there’s a queer conspiracy to dominate everything. Just look around, the boy with the red hunting cap said. —Queers dominate writing, they dominate the theater, they dominate art. Just try to find a gallery where you can show your pictures if you’re not a queer, he added, raising a cigarette between paint-encrusted fingers. —What do you think women look so damned foolish for
today? It’s because queers design their clothes, queers dictate women’s fashions, queers do their hair, queers do all the photography in the fashion magazines. They’re purposely making women look more and more idiotic until nobody will want to go to bed with one. It’s a conspiracy.

Near their table, the tall dark girl who had been talking with Anselm said to someone she knew, —Do you know that girl? I want to meet her.

With his hand on Esme’s shoulder, Otto leaned down to say, —Let’s get out of here. Ed Feasley looked up to say, —You want to go to a party? A big ball a bunch of queers are giving up in Harlem.

—Drag? someone asked.

—What’s drag?

—Where they all dress like women.

—This ball is drag, someone else said. —High drag.

There was a loud yelp. Anselm, on all fours, had met the dachshund, and had one of its ears in his mouth. The tall dark girl looked up at the doorway to see a timid Italian boy with no chin start to enter, and get pushed aside. —God, she said, —there’s my stupid cousin. I’m going next door. —I’ve got a doctor for her, a young man was saying. —He’ll do it for two hundred and fifty, but I can’t get hold of her. Every time I call all I get on the phone is Rose, her crazy sister Rose.

Otto and Ed Feasley, with Esme between them, moved toward the door. The Big Unshaven Man turned away when Feasley passed. —Of course I know him. A damn fine painter, Mr. Memling, he was saying, as he took a quart flask out of his pocket. —Would you mind filling this up with martinis? Yes, what you read about me is true, I like to have some with me. Sure, I’ll look at your novel any time, he finished, as the boy handed a ten-dollar bill across the bar.

—I sure as Chrahst know him from somewhere, Feasley said.

—That’s because he’s Ernest Hemingway, said a voice nearby.

—Paris? said the light-haired girl. —I wouldn’t reach up my ahss for the whole city.

Mr. Feddle was being pushed out the door ahead of them. There they met Hannah. —Is Stanley in there? she asked. —Haven’t seen him. —He had to go to the hospital to see his mother, said Hannah. —She just won’t die. Then Hannah melted into the stew, where the juke-box was playing
Return to Sorrento
.

—Where’s Adeline? Otto asked.

—I don’t know. The hell with her, Feasley said.

They found Adeline asleep in the car. Fortunately it was a new model, with a low chassis and a low center of gravity, which saved it from overturning at the corners. They had some difficulty getting
in to the party, when Ed Feasley offered to fight anyone who kept them out. They were saved when a crapulous Cleopatra appeared, waving a rubber asp at Esme and Adeline, thought it knew them, squealing in rapturous welcome that their costumes were
divine
.