The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (90 page)

—Oh. I’m sorry, Otto said, and watched his companion cross himself, and start to eat. —Are you
Catholic
? he asked.

The eyes turned full upon him, penetrating the dust. He swayed, and looked down at his plate. —Am I Catholic! What do you think I am?

—Oh. I mean, that’s fine. I was just sort of surprised. Seven thin slices of mushroom stuck to the top of the meat. Magic number: Otto cut into them. Somewhere (in exile, doubtless), the handsome young prince must be sitting, over cognac so fine it could hardly be swallowed, recalling legends of the king. Otto put a piece of the dry meat into his mouth, and could hardly swallow it. Beside him, he smelled lavender, and felt ill. He looked up to see the blond Jean leave the bar, carrying her bag. She glanced at the two of them without recognition or interest. Otto raised his face, his eyebrows, and his fork, to signal her.

—You know her? You know that woman?

—No, I . . . well, I talked to her while I was waiting.

—It’s no time to get mixed up with women. Keep yourself out of trouble. He went on eating.

—Yes, well . . . I guess it was just Christmas, you know, I mean, the sort of Christmas feeling. Otto raised another shred of meat on his fork. —I’ve thought of it, you know. Joining the Church, I mean.

—Uh-phhm, was his answer, through a mouthful of bread.

—It’s . . . it kind of gives a reason for things that otherwise don’t seem to have any. I mean, it legitimizes . . . well, you know . . . life, sort of.

—You’re either born into it or you’re not. The fork beside him rested on the tablecloth. —There’s too many people around joining it as if it was a sight-seeing party.

—But I . . .

—You got to be born into it.

—In a sense, I was, said Otto, with a slight laugh of confidence, waiting affirmation. There was none. He rested his fork on the table. He felt dizzy. From the corner of his eye he saw the figure beside him bowed over the plate, eating fast, moving the food only a matter of inches from the plate to his mouth. A fly descended
upon the bread, and busied itself there. Otto’s hand shook as he raised it with the fork. —I guess it’s silly, that I should be nervous now, but I am I guess.

—Hide it the best way you can. It’s all right to be nervous, anybody gets nervous in a thing like this sometimes. But you don’t need to show everybody you’re nervous. You look pretty young.

—Young? Well I guess I do
look
young. But I’ve been out of college for about three years now.

—College? You went to college? He wiped his mouth with his napkin, bowing his head to do so, and looked up.

—Yes, I thought you . . . I went to Harvard, Otto said, and for the first time noticed the man’s necktie. —Why . . . you have on a Porcellian tie. Otto stared at the silk pigs’ heads. —Were you P.C.? I mean, I didn’t even know you went to Harvard.

—Me at college? You know where I studied. Attica and Atlanta.

—But . . . that tie, it is the Porcellian tie isn’t it.

—Don’t worry, kid. I know what I’m doing.

The fly lit on Otto’s hand, and he shook it away. His legs were crossed, and he commenced rubbing his ankle up and down against what he believed to be the center leg of the table. The man in gray was leaving the bar. As he watched him go, Otto’s hand rose with slow automatism to his chest, and his wrist pressed the vacancy there. Who could prove a thing? if he rose abruptly, dumping the table over if necessary, to turn square upon the upholstered shoulders beside him and cry, —Do
you
believe this? But then, who would pay the check? and the bar bill? There would certainly be no offer of a Christmas gift of money which Otto must, somehow, manage to suggest: a gift which might pay for the drinks he had enjoyed with Jean, for having seen the frayed trouser-cuffs when they walked to the table he could hardly expect more. Suddenly he imagined his hair furiously red, his skin dark, or eyes at a telltale slant: that would give the lie to this whole thing. But no: his nose was, really, quite like the one beside him, though Otto refused to recognize it as being absolutely so, derivative. Noses were, after all, noses, quite similar among Caucasians.

The most gross insult might simply be to say, —I trust there hasn’t been some mistake? Better than that, to get up quietly from the table, cross the room quickly to the gentleman in light gray flannel (who also had a nose) and shake hands with him. But even now, the gentleman in light gray flannel was gone.

All this time, the sling had bumped between them without rousing curiosity. Now, he heard, —What are you wearing that sling for, you really got hurt?

—Well, in a way, I . . .

—I thought it was faked. You haven’t learned how to handle it yet. You act like you’re keeping a live squirrel in it.

—But it . . . I . . .

The music was the
Blue Danube
waltz. Otto rubbed his mustache with his fingertip, and looked into a distant mirror where he could see Santa Claus’s strategic entrance, and stealthy approach to the door of the bar, where he was apprehended.

The fork beside him clattered to the plate. —I’m done.

—I think I’ve had enough, Otto said, barely half finished with the meal. He lit a cigarette, as the smell of lavender rose, heard a ringing in his ears from nowhere, wet his lips and heard forced salivation. Might it not all be rehearsed again, but differently, he thought, seeing a thin man of average height and quiet manner seated at a table in the middle of the room, finishing his dinner with a brandy: might Otto not have walked over and shaken his hand, and seated across from him, unsurprised, have listened to his intimacies with opera stars, artists, producers, over breast of guinea hen and wine?

The man in the club tie rose, looked at them, locking them together in his glance, and left. It was too late. Procrustes’ bed was made: the only thing now was to get out of it the best way he could, which Otto did, more with weariness than pain. —It’s kind of difficult, to talk about money, but . . .

—I’ve got it right here for you. You want to take it now? said the voice through a mouthful of bread. He was cleaning his fingernails with a tine of his salad fork.

—Take what?

—Twenties. Five G’s in perfect twenties.

—Five what?

—Five thousand. Here, it’s a thick packet. He motioned with his elbow to his side pocket.

—Five thousand
dollars?

—Christ! Keep your voice down.

—But isn’t that too much? I mean, even with Christmas . . .

—Listen, are you sure you’re not drunk?

—Why no,
no
, I . . .

—I wouldn’t give this stuff to you if you was drunk. You’d probably throw it all over town before the night’s over. Lift it out of my pocket there.

—Oh I’ll be very careful of it, ver-y care-ful of it . . . Otto said as he reached into the pocket and lifted the packet out, while the other sat silent and unconcerned, cleaning his nails with a tine of his salad fork. Otto wanted another glass of whisky. He opened the packet, and took out a twenty.

—Christ! Don’t wave them around here! said the man beside him, and looked over the room quickly. But no one was near to notice them, and when he looked back he seemed unable to resist taking the bill from Otto and laying it on the cloth before him. —Beautiful, he said. —Beautiful, isn’t it.

—Yess, Otto gasped.

—A real work of art. He stared into the face of the seventh President. —You know it takes six different artists to make one of these? That’s what makes it tough. Six to one. Six against one, you might say. He turned it over, and ran a fingertip gently over the portico of the White House. —A real work of art, he said. —You don’t learn that at Harvard.

Otto stared. He clutched the packet, as though it were liable to be wrenched from him at any instant.

—You know, they burn around six tons of this stuff a day, the true quill, down in the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. Worn-out bills. It’s a crime.

—Yes, but . . . well . . . this . . . was all Otto could say.

The hand beside him rose to catch at a lapel, as the man sat back and stared upward, relaxed in nostalgia. —Johnny the Gent died the other day, he said. —You know him?

—No, I . . .

—He melted down the Ascot Cup. He was the first one to gild the sixpence, and passed them as half-sovereigns until they had to call them in. He knew so much about the Church that once he posed as Bishop of the Falkland Islands. He just died, Johnny. He had about ten dollars on him.

Otto appeared to listen; but he heard nothing but jarring syllables.

—He organized the best den London ever saw. He was even a Sunday School teacher for five years. He was a great man. I’ve thought of him a lot of times when I was sitting in the hole.

The waiter approached a nearby table. —Put that stuff away. Otto put the twenty into his pocket, and the packet between his knees.

—I miss him when a great artist dies like that. He was no bum. It’s no place for bums to get into, but they’re ruining it every day. There hardly is a single old master left, a real craftsman, like Johnny, or Jim the Penman. And me. I haven’t had a notice in the
Detector
in fourteen years.

—The what? Otto asked, politely, but firm.

—
The National
 . . . listen. Shut up and listen to that a minute. It is.

—What?

—Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore, he murmured with the music, —non feci mai male ad anima viva . . . And they sat silent to the violent grief-impassioned end.

When it was done, Otto said, —That was very nice.

—
Nice?
Is that all you can say? But you’re just a kid, you never heard Cavalieri do Tosca.

—No, I . . .

—I’m going to get out now. He stood, and found his cane.

—Well . . . but I mean, don’t you want some coffee or something?

—No. I shouldn’t have stayed this long anyhow.

Otto took the check. —I’ll get this, he said graciously.

—All right, kid. Thanks.

—But thank you, I . . . Merry Christmas. Otto was left, the packet clutched against his parts, sniffing the delicious aroma of lavender, only half aware that the table had four legs. A fly landed on his hand, and he simply stared at it.

Two men went out the revolving door, the second a figure in a checked suit, who had been waiting for some time in the lobby. He caught the other by the arm. —This is you, isn’t it?

—What do you mean?

—You’re Frank? They told me I was going to meet you in the lobby. They kept me half an hour late, but you’re an hour. Have you got the stuff? Five G’s in queer?

—Jesus and Mary.

—I’m the pusher they sent, you know? Have you got the queer?

—Jesus Mary and Joseph.

—What’s the matter with you, for Christ’s sake?

—That kid. That fairy. He took every bit of it. He sat there rubbing his ankle against my leg . . .

—Where’d he go? We’ll go in and get him. He’s got the queer on him?

—We’ll wait out here. We’ll get him when he comes out.

—Where you going now?

—Right here in this doorway. The coat came off, was reversed, the black wig went into one pocket, green muffler and glasses into the other, and the sandy mustache appeared, stuck to his upper lip. —It’s cold, said Mr. Sinisterra. —And stop calling it “the queer.”

Otto had appeared at the desk briefly, to put down a ten-dollar deposit on his bill. He was taken to a room. There he sat on the edge of the bed. He tore the wrapping from the money, and started to count it. The sling got in his way. He ripped it off and threw
it on the floor. Then he made piles of ten bills each, fanned out alternating backs and faces, on the bed cover. He stood looking at it, and then turned to the mirror, and ran his fingertip over his mustache. He called downstairs, and waited for the bellboy to come with a razor and “anything else that might come in handy,” passing the time counting the money, in various positions. When the razor arrived, he shaved quickly and dressed. He reeled a little, putting four twenties with his change (which included a ten), and the rest into a drawer, hurriedly, for he heard stirring next door, remembering his neighbor. He turned off the light, closed his door, and stood outside 666, where he knocked and, unable to restrain himself, and as surprised to find the door unlocked, threw it open.

—Who . . . what do you want? Jean cried, pulling a sheet to her throat, uncovering her neighbor, whose light gray flannel suit lay on the floor.

—Why you . . . why . . .

—Get out, get out of here, what do you mean coming in a lady’s room like that.

The door banged.

—Now just who the devil was that?

—Don’t worry, honey, it’s only a fairy I met down in the bar.

—A fairy?

—You know, queer. He said he was a writer, and they’re always queer nowadays.

—There he goes, said the man in the checked suit. —Out the side door. Look out of the way, you dumb bastard.

—That’s no way to talk to Santa Claus.

—Well get out of our way.

—Merry Christmas. Have you got a dime for old Saint Nick?

—Get the next cab in the line and follow him.

The two cabs pulled away from the curb half a minute apart, and a police car drew up before the hotel.

—I could sue you for false arrest, Mr. Pivner said when he got into the lobby, with a policeman, —if that would do any good. Do you know what you’ve done?

Behind him the policeman talked with the tall bellboy, who said, —Well Jesus, I thought he was drunk. The guy with him was. The policeman said, —We got him down to the station house and found a needle on him. We thought he was a junkie. He’s real pissed-off.

—Do you know what you’ve done? Did you see him? A boy with a scarf like this on, he came here to meet me, that was my son, my son . . .

The policeman turned to the revolving door, and the tall bellboy
said to him, —While you’re at it, take Santy Claus along. He’s driving us nuts out there.

The controversy in the sky, by this time, was no nearer settlement; there was really no promise of armistice at all, though the haggling might continue, precipitating fine rain for periods of monotonous variance, broken by impatient bursts of sleet. The skyline of the city was reduced to two dimensions. There was no depth; accustomed to mass, and there was no such sensation, but instead buildings in immediate isolation, their heights awhirl in the weather, their lights incredible in the night, their feat undiminished by comparison with the mass which had clung to their sides pretending support, cowering now out of sight, would be there next day if it were fair, pretending, and sharing the steep triumph of these hampered giants tonight abandoned in trial to their integrity.