The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (62 page)

—Where’d you hear that?

—The only possible reason you could have a copy lying around. You must be buying the whole thing.

—It’s no secret, Brown said. —I picked it up for nothing.

—It’s about time you breathed some life into it, I suppose, Valentine said, dropping the thing on a chair by his coat. —It’s become quite a dismal affair, a frightened little group who spend all their time criticizing each other’s attempts in terms of cosmic proportions, and then defend each other against the outside world. Even the fiction, the stories they write are about each other, they don’t know anyone else. A sort of diary of dead souls.

—A bunch of second-hand Jews . . . Brown began, if only to interrupt.

—I doubt the windows of their editorial offices have been opened in decades, Valentine went on, in a monotone whose only purpose was to establish its authority to continue. —If there are any. What future do you plan for these . . . critics?

—Critics! Brown muttered. —They call themselves critics just because they never learned how to make a living. It’s got a lousy circulation of about five thousand, but it’s got a reputation. Intellectual. I’m going to bring it around to where even a half-wit can feel intellectual reading it. The circulation will be twenty times what it is now.

Valentine laughed quietly, walking away again; and only when his back was turned did Brown, shifting in his chair, show impatience. He seemed prepared to let Valentine go on, wasting time until whatever had brought him here, and strained his nervous presence now, broke forth.

—Like that incredible book you published, what was it? Valentine went on, looking over the array on the table. —“Soul-searching” the reviewers called it. By some poor fellow who joined a notorious political group, behaved treasonably? And after satisfying that peculiar accumulation of guilt which he called his conscience by betraying everyone in sight, joined a respectable remnant of the Protestant church and settled down to pour out his . . .

—It’s already sold half a million, Brown said patiently. —That’s what people want now, soul-searching.

—Soul-searching! Valentine repeated. —People like that haven’t a soul to search. You might say they’re searching for one. The only ones they seem to find are in some maudlin confessional with the great glob of people they really consider far less intelligent than themselves, they call that humility. Stupid people in whom they pretend to find some beautiful quality these people know nothing about. That’s called charity. No, he said and shrugged impatiently, turning with his hands clasped behind him. —These people who
hop about from one faith to another have no more to confess than that they have no faith in themselves.

Brown watched him carefully through the thick lenses, ambling slowly with head lowered, a slim hand raised to the strong profile of his chin, to stop again at the table and flick open the cover of a book there. —
In Dreams I Kiss Your Hand, Madam
, he read. —Really . . . “Selected and edited, with an introduction by . . .” yourself? All the world loves . . .

—There’s no plagiary in that, Brown said. —Everybody who wrote something’s got his name on it.

—You couldn’t have sold a single copy if it weren’t. But here, Esme? who the devil . . . ?

—Who?

—“To E
SME
, whose unerring judgment is responsible for whatever value this book may have . . .” Your humility is really quite touching.

—Some girl in the office pulled those together for me, Brown said, drumming his fingers more rapidly, as his lowered eyes caught the edge of the poem scrawled under his sleeve. —Now what . . .

—Your modesty is overwhelming, as always.

—You came up here to talk about my modesty? Brown broke out at last.

—Hardly. Valentine turned on him. —I dropped in to talk to you about your . . . most successful protégé. He smiled.

—What about him? What have you been up to with him?

—I? Nothing, nothing at all. If Valentine’s composure had seemed to suffer, it was totally recovered; but Brown continued to look at him, hands splayed on the desk, as though nothing were more familiar than composure which was serene only when it had something to dissemble.

—You’ve seen him? What about?

—Let me see, Valentine answered vaguely. —As I remember, we discussed the Lex Cornelia, an ordinance against Roman matrons who poisoned . . .

—I told you, I wasn’t going to have any of your crap interfering.

Valentine raised his eyebrows. —My what?

—Yes, God damn it. I’ve allowed you a lot of things, but this time . . . Look here, there’s a lot of things about you I know, that maybe you don’t know I know, Recktall Brown said leaning forward over the desk, looking at him with the centerless eyes in those thick lenses.

—My private life is hardly any concern . . .

—Not just your private life. A God damn lot of other things.

—Other things? Valentine repeated blandly.

—What about a trip you made to Paris about six months ago? For a week in Paris. Where did you go from Paris?

—The Midi, as I told you. A pleasant town near . . .

—Midi hell. Do you want me to tell you where you went?

—Not especially, said Basil Valentine, tapping his chin.

—I could tell . . .

—But you wouldn’t, would you, Valentine said, resting the finger on his chin, and looking up, as Recktall Brown looked down.

—I told you the day you met him, Brown repeated, —I don’t want any interference from you.

—You know, I believe you rather like him. It must be an odd sensation for you.

—We’re in business.

—Tell me, just how interested in him are you?

—Right now, a quarter of a million dollars. I’m not going to lose interest, either.

—I suppose not, Valentine said, taking out another cigarette, and pausing until he’d lit it. —Tell me, suppose something happened to sever this partnership of yours?

—Something like that over my dead body, Brown said evenly,

—And if these forgeries were discovered?

—What do you mean, discovered.

—I might have said, exposed.

—So that’s it! Brown stood up, his hands remained planted on the desk. —You know God damn well, nobody could prove a thing.

—But if he . . .

—
He?

—As you’ve told me, one cannot insure against inherent vice.

—What do you mean?

—Never mind, Valentine said. —I’m glad I understand you. Yes, for you he doesn’t exist except as an investment?

—And for you he doesn’t exist except as . . .

—We’ve had quite enough of this, Valentine cut in. —Now, this joint bank account you put his money into for him . . .

—It’s safe enough, Brown muttered, sitting down. —Nobody even knows about it, nobody could touch it but us, you and him and I. Then Brown looked up. —That’s what you’re thinking? to reach in there and take out . . .

—Good heavens, Valentine laughed. —You know me better than that. All I could do would be to stop payment anyway, you know. But he . . . Valentine stood looking down at the reflection of the diamonds in the mahogany. —With his genius . . .

—With his genius and your ambition, I’d have . . .

—Why, Valentine interrupted again, looking up at him. —Perhaps
you should settle down and raise a family. I can’t imagine a prouder father than you might make.

—Listen, Recktall Brown said standing again, —we’re not going to have any more of this. You’re going to forget all this crap about exposing these pictures and ruining him.

—
Him?
But suppose . . . suppose it were he who had this notion himself?

—You think he’s crazy? Maybe in other ways, but . . .

—But you cannot imagine anyone being crazy when it comes to making a million dollars. Basil Valentine picked up his coat. He stood looking round the large office as he pulled it on. —You know, you might start a novel factory here, he said. —It’s been done before. And after the success of that “soul-searching” book. And that remarkable abomination,
The Trees of Home
was it? A regular assembly line. Incidentally, he went on in an agreeable tone, pulling up his lapels, —what ever happened to that boy who was up here with a book of poems to sell you? The one with a rather bad case of acne, whom I stumbled on sandpapering his cheeks in the lavatory? Arthur something . . .

—He’s still around, with his God damn poems. Religious poems.

—They weren’t awfully bad. You might allow him some money on them, you know, some chance to live like a human being.

—Do human beings write poetry? Recktall Brown demanded, looking up. Then his pointless gaze fell to the paper under his cuff. —Poets do.

Basil Valentine stood looking at the heavy bowed head for a moment. Then with his hat he picked up the stiff-covered little magazine from the deep chair. —I wish you luck with this, he said, tossing it over before Brown’s hands on the desk, where it slid toward the mass of hand mounting the diamonds, which withdrew with instant volition. The cigar had almost gone out in the ashtray, but continued to give off a faintly noxious emanation. Brown did not look up. He stared at
Effluvium
and mumbled something about how popular religion was now, and something about —those poor intellectual bastards.

—Perhaps they all ought to be crucified? Basil Valentine suggested, pulling the door open behind him. —That might give them some idea of religious experience.

—But this book is about religion, said a sub-editor, standing aside for the tall man in the black Homburg to pass. —It’s Buddhism.

—But it’s by a Jew, said the other, standing aside.

—Well, I’ve told him if he’ll change his hero from a Jew to a homosexual, we might accept it.

—But that’s the way it was in the first place.

Recktall Brown entered to demand, —Who the hell is the Reverend Gilbert Sullivan, and what the hell does he want here? When he got no answer (though he paused no longer than it took to shift himself from the outside door to another) Recktall Brown entered a large roomy closet, and hung his coat among many others of the same size, and shape, and style. The dog, moving its stump of a tail slowly, met him, and he reached down to give it a single pat on the head which seemed to please it greatly.

—Sar . . .

—Why the hell don’t you answer the door, Fuller? Recktall Brown said, advancing. —Instead of . . . who is this Reverend Gilbert Sullivan, what . . .

—Oh no sar, Fuller said, backing into the room before him. —The Reverend not present here, I alone here . . .

—Then why the hell don’t you answer the door instead of talking to yourself.

—Oh no sar not exackly alone sar I . . .

—Well who the hell . . . Well, my boy. I’m glad to see you. God damn glad to see you. Fuller, bring me the pitcher over here. Recktall Brown stood by the chairs before the fireplace, watching Fuller get across the room to the pulpit.

—Fuller? he said suddenly.

—Sar . . . ?

—What have you been up to, Fuller?

—Sar? Nothin, sar. I been most peaceable and quiet of late.

—See you stay that way. Recktall Brown glanced down at the table, and Fuller glanced down at the dog.

—Fuller?

—Sar?

—Isn’t there any more regular brandy?

—Yes sar but . . .

—I told him I wanted this. You can take it out of my next check.

—It’s all right my boy, relax. I just thought that dumb nigger made a mistake. He gets vexed by liquor, he says, don’t know one from another. Recktall Brown settled down in a chair, and looked across the table. —You look tired, my boy. Tired as hell.

—Little dogs in the street bark at me.

—What the hell, my boy. What the hell. You can’t blame them.

—You mean if you were a little dog in the street, you’d bark at me?

—Now listen, my boy, what the hell . . .

—That damned congenitally damned glowing fiend of a dog of yours is the only one that doesn’t bark at me. This is good cognac.

—Listen, my boy, I want to talk to you. Now what about this picture you’re working on?

—That’s why I’m here. It’s out in the hall.

Recktall Brown had been sitting forward in the big chair with his hands turned in upon his knees. He shifted so that flesh rolled over the back of his collar, and shouted, —Fuller!

—Sar?

—Bring in that big package in the hall, bring it in here. Is that it, my boy? he asked, turning. He got no answer, and shifted again to watch Fuller advance, carrying the thing, picking his way among the roses.

—Hurry up, Fuller. What the hell are you doing, playing hopscotch? Now lay it out here and open it and be careful, be God damn careful. As the brown wrapping paper came away Recktall Brown was saying, —I told you not to bring these God damn things up here on the subway. I told you to call me and I’d send a car down for it. Look at here, you already banged up a corner. Then he stopped speaking, and gathered his breath to say, —What the hell!

Fuller had taken three careful steps backward, and stood now staring with a look which another face might have refined into anxiety, but on his was simple expectant terror. The explosion was not for him, however; but however, he remained bound.

—Where the hell is her face?

—Sar?

—I’m not asking you, Fuller, God damn it. Where the hell is her face?

—Appear she deprived of it by the many centuries passin respectfully over . . .

—Fuller! By God, Fuller! Have both of you gone crazy? Get out of here. The pools behind the thick lenses quivered like water disturbed by wind. —This is . . . by God. Now here. Tell me where the hell is her face.

—As Fuller says, it appear she deprived of it by the attrition of many respectful years passing their loving hands . . .

—Stop! Recktall Brown lowered his voice, and then his bulk into a chair. He was perspiring. —I’m tired too, God damn it. Now just tell me simply why the hell you damaged it like this. Fuller, I told you to get out of here.

—Yes sar.

—Ah, to dictate to the past what it has created is possible; but
to impose one’s will upon what it has destroyed takes a steady hand and rank presumption. My wife told me once, that I looked like a criminal.