The Recognitions (135 page)

panion muttered behind his hands, drew them aside and appeared to spit something from the end of his tongue. —If you think you can take care of it then, on the street, in daylight? —Of course . . . the man in the trenchcoat murmured, then, —A Veres költö . . . you remember that . . . ? —You? The clasped hands fell away for a moment, with a sparkle of gold, and the scar on the lip drew it into what appeared to be a sneer. —The poet stained with blood! . . . He drew his hands up again. —Or . . . you? —Enough . . . —You will be on the train tomorrow night? —Yes. —I should like a last good dinner, before we go back. Eh? The Piccolo Budapest? Eh? —Yes. Early. About seven. —You are . . . going back, then? the man in the trenchcoat said, and studied the profile beside him. —Yes, yes, and now good night. Good night. —The personal affairs no longer take precedence, eh? Good night. Until tomorrow? Under Saint Peter's Umbrella . . . eh? Stanley looked down at his book quickly. —And have you ever seen anything so frankly hideous as this, the tall woman's voice took up. —A piece of dirt enshrined forever in clear lifetime plastic. My God! . . . with a certificate of Miraculous Origin and the Seal of the Church. A piece of dirt from the church of Cana in Galilee, where they turned wine into water, my God. My husband's picking up all sorts of things, you can see the state he must be in after what happened to Huki-lau . . . A distant voice said, —I don't care if Joan of Arc was a witch, that hasn't a thing to do with it ... And another, —Of course everyone knows that the Franciscans were canonized for the very things the Waldensians were burned alive for . . . And then Stanley looked up as though he had been struck. A waiter stood before him, and he whispered, —Cafe, hoarsely, trying to look round the dirty apron to where the voice had come from he had so certainly heard. When he saw her, she was already seated, and although so close, in the chair which the man in the trench-coat had left, she had not seen him, and she did not look round, but down at her hands on the table. At that instant Stanley might have leaped up, or cried out, or simply spoken beginning with some overladen conjunction, as though to continue a conversation of minutes or hours before: and it was not her company that stopped him but the absolute, absolved quiet on her face, in spite of the small sore which disparaged the delicate line of her lip. —Something bit her, perhaps, she said at that moment, answering a question from the man half turned from Stanley, and a reproachful smile touched her face, still looking down. Then they were both silent. He only appeared to have glanced at her, and he went on, staring straight ahead. —Of course Huki-lau isn't dead, she's . . . The tall woman whispered something. —Which is just as bad. / don't see how it happened, she's had her belt on every minute she's been over here. There was a goat, in Spain, though, with designs on her. You could see in his eyes. —How tired you look, like he looked sometimes, like an old man, with nothing left before you to regret. And are you old? or are the scars still unhealed down your front. Raise your left hand . . . you can't, it sits there relishing another scar. She laughed, a sharp sound, and left it between them, looking at her own hands on the table. She was wearing a simple dark gray suit, with a long unbroken skirt and a short cape. She had nothing on her hair. He muttered something. —What? You're joking. And she laughed again. His right hand had come down on the table, and she took it in hers, and laid her left hand over both. Still, he appeared to bite the gold seal ring on the other, staring ahead. —Still ... —Today? In Assisi, she went through and through and through the gate. No one appeared in person, granting indulgences. No one, in a "heavenly brightness shining," no one, do you remember? When no one was at the door? Now granting indulgences, O friars minors, is he in Purgatory if he drowned? Down, on a rope, did he tell you that story? Drowned, in the celestial sea come down the rope to. undo the anchor caught there on a stone with no one's name on, and a date, inclined against the bottom by the darkness, and so no wonder that the anchor caught, and he came down the rope. If there were time ... —Listen. Just tell me . . . —More you know? His blood on the leaves, I saw it. But no thorns? that's someone else then, for I saw him delivered, down. Yes, streaked with no one's oil and delivered, down, that damned black androgyne who held him back and lost him, down . . . —I may not see you again. She did not raise her eyes. Stanley swallowed with self-conscious effort and pretended, to himself, to find his place in the book before him. At another table, a group had settled to worry the most recent dogma, that of the 922 Assumption. One of them said, —There's a perfectly good scientific explanation ... —And then when we drove back, a monk drove with us. She had her belt on then, but I didn't watch . . . —She would have died of asphyxia at fifty thousand feet. —You hear things, about life in monasteries. —Or if she'd gone fast, burned up like a meteor. —Will you marry her? Stanley looked up at that, eyes wide but the lids drawn upon them in disbelief, as though trying to hide what he heard from himself; and hide what he saw, for her eyes were wide, and no lids discernible. —Marry you! the man said, and he withdrew his right hand from under hers. —All right, Mary was a Jew, wasn't she? A Jewish woman, if she went bodily to heaven, how does she eat? —This little piece of dirt, enclosed in lifetime plastic forever. Does a plastic lifetime last forever? —Is there a kosher kitchen in heaven? —You see, he put it there, and he did not take it away. Stanley stared at her. His own expression, and even the movement of his hands, commenced to follow hers, then those of the man when he answered, then his face hers and his hands those of the man, except intricate muscles tried round the edges and round the eyes, and the corners of his mouth, to rescue his own face from that unguarded openness, and his hands quivered. —Marry you! Me! —For he put it there, and did not take it away as he promised, as he always had done before, as he promised. —Me! —Take the dogma of the Immaculate Conception. You try to preserve Mary from the taint of Original Sin, then what about Elizabeth? You can go all the way back. —Of course we met the people who make these things. Religious novelties, and mostly plastic. And she even admitted openly she was a convert. But my husband can tell a Jew a mile away. —So Mary Herself told Saint Anthony of Padua her body remains incorruptible in Heaven. —Saint John of the Cross said . . . —Listen! Listen ... —Where there is no love ... —This is the last time I will see you. —But why do you do the things you do? Why do you live the life you live? Stanley watched his shoulders hunch forward, watched one hand grip the other, and though he could not see the watery blue eyes, his own by now lay open with the same implications of desire as those wide dark eyes he sought. —Because ... do you understand? the Cold Man said, speaking with quiet clarity for the first time, —because any sanctuary of power . . . protects beautiful things. To keep people ... to control people, to give them something . . . anything cheap that will satisfy them at the moment, to keep them away from beautiful things, to keep them where their hands can't touch beautiful things, their hands that . . . touch and defile and . . . and break beautiful things, hands that hate beautiful things, and fear beautiful things, and touch and defile and fear and break beautiful things . . . —Oh no, she said to him. —Because there are so few . . . there is so little beauty, there are so few beautiful things, that to preserve them, to keep them . . . —But to make more . . . beautiful things? As they looked at each other, Stanley looked at them both, helplessly suspended between their eyes, waiting for what each sought in the other. —Now ... if there were time . . . she said softly. —And you are going into a convent, you are going into that . . . that life, he insisted suddenly, and she shrugged her shoulders, looking down once more. —Or what other? For there she will become a bride. —Tomorrow, yes it's arranged, an audience, it's the best thing, tomorrow. —So soon! —Tomorrow, yes. It's all arranged. —Tomorrow she will . . . kiss the Fisherman Ring? If there were time, to ask him questions about Purgatory. —I had a book of his once, by mistake ... —To kiss Saint Peter in the Boat, tomorrow? —Here you are! Listen, listen to this, this letter from my wife, Don Bildow burst out, dropping square in front of Stanley at the table. —No, no, no . . . —Listen. My daughter was all swollen up when I left, remember? And we thought it was ... we didn't know what it was, remember? Well do you know what it was? . . . what it is? She's pregnant! That's what this letter from my wife says, and she's only six. Do you hear me? What am I going to do? What are you looking at me like that for? Stanley was silent, he was staring at Bildow's face, but vacantly,, as though far beyond it. —It's the Eccentricities of Cardinal Pirelli. —But have you read Justine? In that he desecrates the wafer right inside her. —Give me that! Give me that thing! Don Bildow snatched the book from Stanley's lap. —My husband's sitting up in the hotel room now, with a book by some laousy Chinaman, and a bottle of Scotch. An Italian boy entered and joined the next table, where he offered a group of American tourists for sale. Further on, two American senators were drinking whisky and arguing whether or not Sweden had a king. —He says he's practicing the gentle art of sitting and forgetting. My God, I'm tired. Don Bildow was trying to tear the book up. First he tried to break the spine, but he could not. Then he got half the pages in one hand, but he could not tear them. Finally he held the book against him, and started to rip out about ten pages at a time. The table behind his narrow back was empty, and then Victoria and Albert Hall, and Rudy, and Sonny, and Buster, and Big Anna, the Swede, and two others descended on it, and set to discussing the problems of the train trip to Paris, if Rudy and Frank were both in states of Grace they could not share the same compartment. The pages continued to rip. A faint male voice protested, —Caprew . . . A woman's voice said, —Kike. Don Bildow sat at the table ripping the pages out of the book, about five at a time. From behind, when she stood still in that yellow velours gown, Mrs. Deigh rather resembled an uneven stack of sofa cushions. At the moment only Dom Sucio had this coign of vantage, and he did not stop to enjoy it, but turned and hurried down a dark hallway hastily adjusting his mantle, as she opened the door to Stanley. He paused, upon entering, to support himself on Judith's sword-arm: Holofernes' head swung toward him, and the whole thing almost came over. —My dear boy be ... be careful of our . . . Donatello, Mrs. Deigh gasped as the bronze righted itself. —It's his . . . David, his famous David, she murmured nervously, addressing the still gently swaying head, as though apologizing to it. She continued to murmur nervously, wringing one hand in the other, as she led him into the crowded room. —We do wish you would have your hair cut. Stanley sat down on the edge of the Queen Anne chair, and she stood over him for a minute. —What is it? What is troubling you, dear boy? —Nothing, nothing, nothing, he said quickly, and pulled his shoulder from under her hand, and the glitter of the wrist watch at his cheek. She withdrew looking injured, and sat down almost silently in the big chair. There she commenced the familiar chucking noise. —I ... I'm sorry, I ... I'm tired. —It has been a trying day for everyone, she said, somewhat distantly, and went on looking at the ceiling. When he continued silent, hands gripped between his knees, she said in the same tone, —We had a very trying visit from some British Israelites. And poor Cardinal Spermelli, the white ants have completely destroyed his chess-playing machine. All he talks of now is going to Venice, where he can be conducted to his last resting place in the dignity of a pompa. funebre, though those little Coca-Cola motorboats . . . —Is he real? Stanley brought out suddenly. —Is he what? my dear boy? —No, no, but if he's a Cardinal he should be ... nothing. Nothing. —You are upset, are you not, she said looking sharply at him as he lowered his eyes once more, and she looked back to the ceiling. —We knew you would like him, he likes young boys so much, especially musical young boys. But his area musarithmica, alas . . . —What is that? —Don't you remember it, dear boy? The seventeenth-century machine he showed you, that composes music automatically. Alas, you will never see it again. The white ants . . . what is it? What's the matter? Are you having a chill? . . . She stared where he was staring. — Ahhhh . . . she sighed with sad affection, but she did not get up. —It's one of his days up and around, she murmured. The lean figure had emerged unsteadily from one of the dark doorways, and stood resting at a precarious angle against the leg of a figure in a bathing suit, a bronze (labeled Hercules, by della Robbia). The dim light cast a faintly yellow sheen over the veluti-nous patches left on his back. A twist of insulated wire led from one ear to the object hung at his collar. Mrs. Deigh made the chucking noise again, but nothing moved. —He has not looked so discouraged since he fell into the baths of the Emperor Tiberius at Capri, and we had to hire an Alpinist to rescue him. She looked slowly round at Stanley. —Do you recall asking me about the initials on his little chair in the Automobile? the little chair where you sit? I asked Dom Sucio, and he told me, of course. Impubis Hadrianus Semper. Then she cleared her throat. The chain rattled as she leaned forward and spoke more gently. —Dear boy, your teeth are chattering. Perhaps . . . —No, no, I ... I'm all right, I don't ... —We understand. Perhaps you caught a chill at Assisi? . . . We won't ask what is burdening your soul. We understand. Perhaps it 926

will take your mincl off it to tell us about Assisi? It is so long since we have walked among those roses, and touched the very spot where . . . —She asked me to marry her, Stanley blurted out. —What? to what? Who? —She asked me to marry her, yes, and . . . —But . . . my dear boy, you . . . you never told me there was a ... a girl? —Yes . . . —And you . . . you didn't take her up there with you? To that . . . that holy spot . . . ? The chain rattled, the objects strung to it went to the floor. Neither of them retrieved it. —She . . . she kept going through the gate of the Portiuncula, she ... to gain indulgences for . . . she . . . —Dear boy! dear boy! Mrs. Deìgh had come forward, half unseated, half to her feet. —No, she ... If only there were time, she said, over and over. She's pregnant. Mrs. Deigh went back in the chair, got firm hold on the arms as the mother-of-pearl crucifix climbed out of her bosom, and it dropped back in as she stood. The chain came up with her. —You . . . you don't understand, she isn't just a ... a who . . . a wh . . . —Dear boy, don't weep, We . . . —If she . . . she wanted to share her beauty with anyone . . . with everyone, she ... if she . . . —We understand, dear boy, We understand, Mrs. Deigh said with a warm hand on his neck, patting him there gently, as she did for a minute broken only by his sobs, until finally she said to him, —And of course you said, No. No? We hope you said No, when she asked you . . . that. We hope you said No, and told her that you are going to Fenestrula, for your work, your work is what matters, your work is all that matters isn't it, isn't it dear boy. And you did say No, did you not. —Ye . . . hes. No. —There. Of course you said No. —Yes, it ... everything is in pieces. I ... Stanley got to his feet, and drew both hands down over his face. Then he turned to her and burst out, —And your . . . Dom Sucio, he ... did you know he ... he isn't real? —But dear boy, Mrs. Deigh said gently, —he is as real as we are. —No, what I mean is, I mean a monk, a real monk, I saw him ... I ... did you know that? —Of course, dear boy. —But you . . . you knew all along, there's no ... no special Order for ... for little people? And he ... the contributions you give him, he ... yes, you told me, people turned to look at him in the street and he ... he was sensitive, but I ... that they mistook him for a wandering child, but I ... I ... —Dear Stanley, Mrs. Deigh said, and came close to put an arm round his trembling shoulders. —You are such a ... dear boy. For a moment, it looked as though Hadrian were going to improve his position against the bronze leg. With great caution he commenced to raise one foot from the floor. The instant he started to sag in that direction he planted the foot where he'd got it, but too late to do more than save himself from going down altogether, and so he stayed that way, the moment of daring, and all memory of it, gone. —Will you join Us in prayers, in our little private chapel, Stanley? she asked as they separated, slowly, each with a look of wary interest, close enough to smell one another for the first time. —Ye ... yes ... Then she moved quite briskly, first to Hadrian, making the chucking sound. Hadrian did not raise his head. —We must confess, Hadrian and Dom Sucio are not the best of friends, she said with some asperity, setting Hadrian square and working at the box on his collar. —Dom Sucio turns his hearing aid off, and sometimes he doesn't hear a thing for days. As she straightened up murmuring, —Now there was something else . . . Hadrian sagged back against the bronze calf. —Oh, from Our daughter, something she sent, I meant to show you. —A letter? . . . —Not precisely a letter. Here. Here it is. She took a folded paper from behind a picture frame and handed it to him. —We shall return in a moment, dear boy. For prayers. And she left him with this: PLEASE HELP IMMEDIATELY This lady knows that you need this Ritual The Ritual Jehovah God Before me Saint Raphael Behind me Saint Gabriel To my right Saint Michael To my left Saint Auriel Behind me shines the gold star And above me shines the Glory of God. Pray for this sick lady, for her hair to be thick and black, for her eyes strong, and clear eyesight, for her nose to grow one inch longer, big, thick and healthy, her teeth and gums to be strong and healthy, also pray for her eyelashes and eyebrows to be thick and black, and skin healthy and white, and for all her Health, all her Reconstruction, and her husband. Please help this lady; pray hard and strong for her. This Ritual comes from India to help this lady and to save and uplift humanity. Please pray hard for her to get to India to help humanity. Please spread this Ritual for her and her husband. Please use this Ritual or you will be sick and poor. Please get this lady a lot of helpers and help her to live in India. After you say this Ritual, pray in your own way all you can. Help this lady or you will be sorry. If you do this Ritual you shall have everything you need in this world. Send this Ritual to all your friends and to the children and to the relatives. You must do this work or everyone will get sick and poor and the world will shake to pieces. TRANSMUTING You need to know this added higher law of the transmuting of power within mankind, within your own system. You already know that all of our mental power must be used to help. Also all of your creative power must be used to help. Instead of wasting this creative power of the genetalia, it must be used with the Ritual, praying out the power to help this sick lady for her health and her reconstruction, out of suffering. Also you should get the men to transmute power to their sick wives so that their wives can be strong and healthy and so that their wives can pray for this sick lady. Also you should get all the men and all the women and the older adolescent children to send out their power both ways to help this sick lady. This has to be done quickly to save this lady and her husband and to save and uplift humanity, to the next teachings, which you all will receive thru some sort of world publicity. Please send copies of this Ritual and letter to all Doctors and Dentists and Lawyers and everybody that you can all over the world. Stanley twisted his shoulders against the hot nettling sensation under his shirt. The rattling chain sounded distantly, muffled by the red hangings, and his bandaged hand sought the tooth in his pocket. Then the heat became more sensible. It was drenched with the scent of roses, and a soft glow illuminated the paper he held before him. —We always say our prayers this way . . . since Portugal . . . He looked up slowly, past the figure of Hadrian, sagged forward again silently, petrified there about to spring upon something long since gone to earth, the light from behind bringing a soft sheen to the yellow patches of pubescence. -It makes Us feel, somehow, closer to Him. She had two lighted tapers apd held one of them forth, in the hand springing from the gold circlet of the wrist watch, and that, with the ellipsoid still swinging gently on the end of the chain, was all she was wearing, though the attar of roses clung to him as he passed the tendered head of Nebuchadnezzar's general, slipping, near being pinioned on Judith's sword, and made the street where a car swerved to a stop, so near running him down that he found himself standing stricken in the dark gap between its headlamps, his empty hand against its grill, where he read the word FIAT. —Of course I said . . . No, he whispered. Bells sounded somewhere. It was sundown in Barbados. Doctor Fell stood on his veranda with one hand down the front of his pants, scratching. In the other he held a letter which commenced, —Dear Doctor, In cases of gastric hyperacidity, the commonest symptom is the sensation of a bonfire in the stomach . . . He was not reading the letter, however, but looking down the path which led to the rest of the Pilot Project and the native bungalows. Shadows were already gathering, and Doctor Fell appeared concerned, for he knew what difficulty his assistant had keeping his balance in the dark. —Gordon! ... he called after a moment. He saw nothing but the palm trees one way and the rim of the sea the other way. He heard the sound of the surf. —Gordon! he called again, and then sheltering his eyes from the lack of brilliance above with the letter, he peered down the path. Scarcely more steady than the shadows themselves, a figure took form, and emerged. Doctor Fell stepped down and came to help him with his load of little white boxes. Gordon could only carry one armload, stacked up to his chin, since the other arm was in a sling. —Tsk tsk, said Doctor Fell, —how heavy they are getting . . . Gordon followed him in. When the little white boxes were all locked in the freezing unit, Doctor Fell turned and said, —How do you like the work by now, Gordon? You don't mind it so much, do you Gordon? —No. But they ... —Who? —The men down in the field, Ed and Max, and Anselm and Chaby ... —You mean the natives? —Yes, they ... —What do you call them Ed and Max and . . . what do you call them names like that for, Gordon? —They . . . they just . . . look like them, by now. —You'd better have some Dramamine, right now, Gordon. Doctor