The Recognitions (95 page)

tone was, —Yes, anything to silence you, to send you away ... he did not notice. —Because this book . . . this book . . . ? —Yes, she said. —Yes. —Yes, he repeated, staring at it, he whispered —the arch never sleeps. —Relax, Benny. You just need a drink, Ellery said. —You'll bounce back. —Ellery, let him ... Benny stopped, and looked up at Ellery. —I know, he said. —That's what I can't stand. I know I'll bounce back, and that's what I can't stand. He looked at them all three. —Don't worry, he said. —This only happens once. That's the world I live in. You make one show, and when it's finished you throw it out. You give everything you've got to make one show, and then it runs for twenty minutes and you can never show -it again, so you throw it out. This only happens once . . . —Look, Benny . . . —But could I have this? he went on, in the same loud tone, holding up the book. —Do you understand? Because I'm sentimental. That's why I have my job, because I feel what other people feel but more, the same things but more, but not too much, not too much like he did . . . —Benny . . . —Not too much. He relaxed against Ellery. —You're O.K., Benny. You just need a drink. Benny looked up at him. —Don't you get tired? —Yeh, we both need a good night's sleep. —I mean tired of the whole thing. Ellery looked at him. —I'll get you a drink, he said, and bumped into the tall woman, who had turned from this scene to say to her husband, —Now, do you see what I meant about Hawaii? She was interrupted. —Do you see what I mean? But the man who made this demand turned from her to look at Esther, and looking at Benny he said to Esther, his forearm extending its own length from the gray flannel sleeve which Benny looked at with glazed familiarity, —Do you see what I meant? Do you see what I meant? —That's what I hate. That's what I hate. That's what I hate. —Do you see what I meant? —Merry Christmas, someone said, raising a glass. —If you'll pardon the expression. —Great God. Whatever made you think of that? The girl with Boston accents looked at Benny and said, -What's he high on, man? The stocky man in army uniform looked at the critic, still seated on the couch, and, saying, —A guy like that is dangerous, was, as usual, right for the wrong reasons. —And the Swiss Guard at the Vatican? I suppose you know that the Pope has given them permission to practice shooting at a target range? And in plain clothes? —And they say that the food in Spain is inedible, that is if you're used to eating like a civilized person, and so I'm taking scads of these marvelous reducing pills that simply take your appetite away. —I finally got this new Cadillac, said the author of The Trees of Home, filling a hypodermic syringe with whisky. —I've just always wanted a brand new car, there's something about the way a brand new car smells inside, that new smell. It's something I've always wanted, it's been a regular phobia of mine. The person with him was garnishing an unseasonal martini with Pernod from a pocket bottle, muttering —Just a drop in each one, there's some chemical reaction. But what's that? he added, looking up to see the needle fitted into place. —You take it this way, you get just as drunk and you don't get hangovers, said the author of the best-selling book. —My analyst told me about it. He rolled up a sleeve. —Did I tell you about this new Cadillac I got? It's been a regular phobia with me . . . Esther stood looking round her, nervously as though for something to demand her attention and relieve her of going where her attention was demanded: from the doorway, Don Bildow directed a plastic-rimmed appeal over the shoulder of a paunchy man whose familiar face had been so many times, and she realized now, so inadequately, photographed. At hand, the collar of the green wool shirt and the dark head above reared over the back of the couch. The critic and his stubby companion were looking in the same direction. —Christ ... It was difficult to tell, from behind, which of them was muttering. —The guest of honor. Why can't he stay home to get drunk? Across the room, Stanley had looked up and interrupted himself to say, —Look, he must have just come, isn't that . . . —Somebody said he was coming, Agnes Deigh said. —Oh God, I don't want to listen to his soul-searching . . . —But if we ... —Not from him. Not tonight. She looked up at Stanley. —Black beetles in wal-nut shells, bound round her baby's eyes, Mr. Crotcher sang. —Do you like that? —The Boeuf on the Roof . . . —I haven't seen her since Ischia . . . 608

—It's in the Vatican, if you call that art . . . —And don't let those medieval costumes fool you, you can carry fifteen rounds in a good codpiece, a grenade if you're underdeveloped . . . —She says it happened right there in the Cappella Sistina, but you know her, it might as well have been the Cappella Paolina . . . —I wonder what ever happened to old Deedee, Ed Feasley said to no one, and then, to the sharkskinned Argentine, —What was that about battleships? Don Bildow brought his shoulders up to a hopeful slope as Esther approached, but they sagged again as her eyes and her smile passed him to embrace a haggard, red-eyed, rash-looking young man who had just come in. The two on the couch watched her, though the shorter one did not stop talking. —I got a look at the manuscript, he said. —It's called Wild Gousse Chase, and I swear he's got you in it. A character named Hawthorn, and I swear it's you, just about the time you were mixed up with that same blonde, except he's got her having you psychoanalyzed just like she had him analyzed when he was trying to get rid of her and couldn't because she was paying for the analysis, so he's got this character that I swear is you screwed up like that with her. You could sue that wise bastard. —Yuh. Hand me that glass, will you? —Who's that that Esther's got her hands all over now? —A stupid kid named Otto. —He looks like a truck ran over him. Benny was talking to the man in his old suit. —I'm going back tomorrow, he said. —I haven't been home for eleven years. That's a long time, to go back and try to take up where you left off. I haven't seen anything grow for eleven years. You forget that things grow. The vegetables you get in restaurants, you can't believe that they ever really grew anywhere, and the flowers, you never think of flowers growing, you see them one way, cut, and you can't think of them any other way except posing, dead. The trees here don't grow, they're ready-made like furniture, that puts on new slip-covers in the spring. My God, you forget, you forget . . . —Benny . . . —Why, I'll be there tomorrow morning, I'll be out on the side porch watching the sun come up Christmas morning, you see if I'm not . . . Benny raised his head, looking around the room. Then, standing beside the door to the hall leading to the bedroom, he saw Ellery talking to the blonde; and when the man before him said, in the same tone he himself had been using a moment before, —Benny, •would you take me along . . . ? Benny said nothing. Behind him, a girl said, to someone else, —So I started this person-alidy course where they have you stand in front of a mirror and repeat your name over to yourself in a nice gentle tone . . . and now I'm Mister Wipe's personal secretary . . . —So I said to her, you just go ahead and be pathological . . . —So I said to them when we got back to Florence, of course there's no place I'd rather live than Siena if I had my analyst there with me ... —So he said to me, Oh, Sappho, he was queer too wasn't he ... No longer the garden, but, as Benny said, cut flowers posing dead, without past or future, in as great a variety of jealous identities assembled as the tenants of an expensive florist's window, lacking the careless grandeur of indigenous plants, arranged instead in that slightly frantic symmetry which dazed passers-by call artistic, and move on, never hazarding the senses to violation by wire and the treachery of paper petals. Even now, Herschel, perilously erect, posed blossomtime. —Of course, baby, I've never been better in my life . . . but no, I couldn't show you the tattoo. Since you must know, the two friends I met that night played a vile trick on me, at least it seemed so when I saw it in the mirror, what they had tattooed on me I mean, I never saw them again. But now that I've lived with it for awhile I'm quite fond of it. It's me. Do you like foxes? I can't even tell you, it's so naughty, but it is rather cute, would you like to see it? Come into the bathroom . . . Anselm watched all this in silence. Occasionally his lips moved, forming isolated syllables which were words in themselves, most often one which drew his lower lip under his front teeth, and released it on a sharp k. People made way for him, turning their backs, as he moved about the room with none but immediate goals, the half-emptied glasses put aside carelessly, and raised, empty, with surprise, when he had gone on. Someone, turning upon him too soon, challenged agreeably, —Why don't you ask for a full one? Anselm handed over the glass he had just emptied and said, —Why don't you ask for eight more inches? you'd still have a hole in your belly . . . and went on, the magazine rolled in his hand advertising trusses on its back cover. —I don't know, Stanley, but it's as though everywhere I look, there's something, or someone . . . that I've failed to ... Agnes Deigh paused, looking round. —Unintentionally maybe, even betrayed . . . —It's because we've been led to believe today that we are self-610

sufficient, Stanley commenced, —that no transcendent judgment is ... —There, even there, do you see him? she said, starting a little in her chair. —The boy who just came in? He brought me a play he'd written, and I never got a chance to read it but I told him . . . —Agnes, you . . . —Stanley, I ... —Esther . . . —Now listen, you're the lady with the kitten aren't you? . . . —Esther, have you seen? fairies in the bottom of your garden? hehehe —But this time he wasn't trying to teach the kitten to salivate . . . —Otto . . . I'm so glad you're here. —But I didn't know you were having a party, I just came up ... —But you're here, she said, and took his arm. —I knew you were back, she said, leading him slowly through the room, but not pausing. —But you look ... I even heard you had your arm in a sling. Where have you been? —I just got out of jail, he said rather jauntily. —Out of what? jail? She did stop, and looked at him. —It was nothing, he said to her. —A fifteen-dollar fine for . . . you know, fooling around. I was celebrating. I was lucky, I had just sixteen dollars on me . . . With a shock of anxiety, his hand went to a breast pocket, found the sharp confirming corner of the packet inside, and dropped. —I was lucky, I'd left ail the rest of my money in a hotel-room bureau drawer, I was terrified it would be gone by the time I got back there, I ... Esther was looking at him, as though not listening, simply waiting for him to finish. —What's the matter? he asked uncertainly. —You haven't said you were glad to see me. —Oh but, I mean, of course I am, I just, everything's been so sort of ... you know, and I, and maybe . . . someone's men-tioned to you? about my play, I mean? he blurted out. She shook her head. —Well I mean, it's nothing, nothing really, but . . . But she did not interrupt him, or no more than with the look in her eyes, waiting for him to ask what it never occurred to him to ask: about her, how she had been all of this time, how she was; what would have given him what he sought, had it occurred to him: the chance to bridle this runaway apology, which she did not require, this hazardous insistence, which he did not dare halt, in this race with himself. His jauntiness was falling away, giving place to exhaustion and mounting anxiety. —And then, I met my father finally. I had dinner with him. I mean, do you remember how you used to ask me why I didn't look him up? And he ... so I did. Esther's hand rested on his arm, she seemed to have wilted a little before him, and she asked quietly, —What was he like? —Well he was fine, he was sort of stern, but I mean he was really very nice, and . . . well sort of stern and brusque. And he was a Catholic, I mean not that that should make any difference, but it sort of surprised me, and . . . well I don't know, to tell the truth I'm sort of mixed up ... Otto was rummaging in a pocket, and he brought out a note. —When I got back to the hotel finally, here was this note waiting from him. It's sort of pathetic, asking me to call him as soon as I can, and then he says he hopes I haven't been worried about him, right after I'd just seen him for the first time, maybe he means on account of his eyes, he didn't ... he doesn't see very well, and ... I don't know, I mean when I think of him that's what I remember, his glasses, the dust on his glasses, Otto persisted. And now, as the appeal in her face became more manifest, reach-ing further back, through unrelated privacies to the last embrace they had abandoned, the more he retreated, dodging among irrelevant images of himself. —And I haven't called him, I sent him a fancy robe this morning for Christmas, it seemed the least ... I mean, I thought I should do something like that, you know, for Christmas, he finished, running a finger of his pale hand across his smooth lip. —Esther, Don Bildow interrupted them, giving Otto a bare glance, sufficient only to dismiss him. —I think you might come over and greet your guest . . . —That man standing over near the door, Otto commenced, recovering somewhat, —isn't that . . . ? —In a moment, Esther said to Don Bildow, who retired a polite step and waited. —Do you want to come over and meet him? she asked Otto. —Well, I mean, I don't know . . . —Do you remember? she asked, both hands on his arm now, —when you lent me his book? When we first knew each other, that first day at lunch? —Yes, yes I remember, of course I remember, Otto said quickly, and then paused uncertainly. —But now . . . —After all, Don Bildow recovered from his momentary lapse of politeness, —he is the only halfway interesting person here tonight, Esther. He started to turn his unimpressive back upon them. —Wait, Esther said, and then to Otto, —You don't want to meet him? —I guess not, Otto said, looking beyond her at the paunchy figure near the door, who had just covered his mouth with a handkerchief and looked like he was going to be sick into it; and the 612

tall woman, who had just said,—/4 theism! . . . that charming word, I haven't heard it in years, turned looking for her husband murmuring, —Oh dear . . . have I said something wrong again? . . . —I guess not, thanks Esther, I mean what would we have to say to each other? he went on, as Esther was turned away on Bildow's urgent arm. —I used to ... wanting to meet the poet, or the painter, or the writer or the tight-rope walker of the minute, as though you could sop up something from them in a handshake . . . Otto had lowered his eyes, over her thighs, and his voice until, having made a discovery in his own words, he was talking to himself. At that he raised his face, and with the brave refusal of one rejecting revelation for fear of examining the motives which conspired to breed it, went to seek a drink. —Chrahst, I thought you'd gone to Peru. Otto looked up to see Ed Feasley. —But I just saw you, a day or so ago. —I know. Chrahst, wha'd you do, fly both ways? I mean, what are you doing here? —I just heard there was a party here, Otto answered, and added, —I don't know, picking up a glass. —I know, I mean Chrahst, you know? This crazy spic has been following me around all night. What's that they're playing anyway? He cocked his head numbly to a fragment of Handel's Royal Fireworks Music, which was being accompanied by Mr. Crotcher singing Bye Bye Blackbird from his armchair. —I mean I wish they'd play On the Sunny Side of the Street, you know? There's been somebody tagging around after me all day, this marathon walker, I met him in a bar. Forty miles a day, you start at four A.M. and you get there at three P.M. and eat. You just have to have a destination, he told me. A marathon walker, I mean Chrahst, how unnecessary. And now this spic. I heard you sold your novel. —My play, I ... Otto commenced. —Yes, Chrahst, you ought to try selling a battleship. And the two young men finished their drinks and stood silent, staring vacant-eyed on the room, vaguely jarred by the words spattering around them. —The one about the lady from the First Unitarian Church of Kennebunkport, M.E. who orders monqgrammed napkins for a church luncheon and . . . Oh, I've spoiled it. —And even barely more than a hundred years ago there weren't ten bathrooms in all the private houses in Paris . . . —In a hundred years the population of Europe has tripled, what does that mean? —And have you heard the Far Rockaway locker room story? —I said to him, if you really believed what you wrote there, you'd be morally obliged to blow your brains out. —Well whisky's all right, said the girl with the bandaged wrists, —but for God's sake don't give it gin, gin stunts the growth, we tried it on a kitten. Nearer by, the woman in the collapsed maternity dress said, —Cross-eyed people bring me bad luck. —Not just cross-eyed, the tall woman went on, —but with a withered hand, on crutches, and an idiot. Can you imagine one person having all those things? And in a suit with a pleated, belted back? —An embarras des richesses, or they would be for that woolly-headed boob over there on the couch. His main trouble is that he never finished his analysis, some girl was paying for it of course . . . There was a tug at her skirt. —And what do you want? , —Mummy sent me up for some more sleeping pills. —What are you reading . . . ? —Oh I'm not readin this, the little girl said, holding up Toilet Training and Democracy. —Some man ... —Here, said the tall woman, opening her bag. —I have some right here. She took out a Chinese toothpick box, and worked with its intricate catch. —Oh wait a minute . . . my God, I almost gave you my Seconal. A friend of my husband's brings it from Mexico, she went on, rummaging. —Here you are, dear . . . —Now you'd better march right downstairs and . . . —Don't hurt the poor child's feelings. —Another sensitive minority, children? If I hear once more . . . —I mean Chrahst, sensitive minorities, you know? Ed Feasley took up, turning to Otto. —I mean it's really people like us, you and me, we're the persecuted minority. White, Protestant, male, over twenty-one, 1 mean we don't belong anywhere, you know? And finally we're all just parodies of each other. I mean Chrahst sometimes I wish I'd studied something in college. What's the matter? he broke off, seeing Otto's expression. —Nothing. That girl, that blond girl, for a minute I thought . . . nothing. —Her? I know her from somewhere, you want me to introduce you? Otto mumbled something, and reached for a full glass nearby. —You don't? I don't blame you, Chrahst why start all over again? I mean, it's just like that marathon walker, you know? What do you do when you get there? You eat and go to bed. —I know, Otto said dully, looking at the floor. —It's funny, I used to think that to go to bed with a girl older than I was or bigger than I was, that made it all right. Then you know, when I was in Central America, it was funny, I thought that if you paid a girl, that made it all right, but if you paid a lot it was more sinful than if you paid a little, but it seemed more honest to pay with money than . . . than with pretending that you . . . than paying with . . . yourself, he finished vaguely, still looking at the floor. —I know, you know? I mean imagine just starting in now. My old man says you're not a man until you're the head of a family. He's had it, Ed Feasley went on, as vaguely, looking at his shoetops. —There's this great big old house up in the Hudson River Valley. Cornwallis had his headquarters there, or maybe it was Lafayette or General Sherman, I don't know, but you can't go into the place without thinking about the parties they've had in it, ambassadors and presidents, you know, I mean it's historical as hell. And now my mother sits up there opening packages, that's the only thing she ever thinks about, whenever a package comes for anybody she gets so excited. I mean even the laundry. Even the groceries. You know? And now they've built this state hospital three miles away, it's full of feebs, feeble-minded people, and some niggers are building this crazy religious camp right across the river. I mean I've got nothing against niggers but Christ, you know? Ed Feasley finished his drink. —Whenever I go home, it's like everything's wearing out. I mean just imagine being the head of a family in that place now. Just starting in now. I mean Chrahst everything wears out, you know? People wear out, friends wear out, cars wear out, sometimes it's easier to smash them up while they're still new, and you don't have to watch them wear out. They were being approached by a short shiny figure in a gray sharkskin suit who was, himself, being hounded by someone saying, —Are you the guy who's telling people that our company puts drugs in its dog food so dogs get addicted to our brand . . . ? —Oo, coño ... I was warned about this sort of thing, the Argentine said, escaping in Ed Feasley's direction. —Excuse me, do I intrude? We became separated while speaking of ... —Battleships, said Ed Feasley wearily, and taken in charge, he left Otto staring into an empty glass. He did not even raise his eyes when someone beside him said, —She told me there was food in the kitchen, but I went in and there are two lunatics in there, one of them's almost naked and the other is buttering him. Stanley's voice droned steadily as a distant undercurrent, —Yes but just let me finish ... to Agnes Deigh. —I'm not trying to say I'm exempt from it, this modern disease, he went on with an insistence which prevented him from seeing that she was more than tired, was in fact exhausted in a sense so severe that it was physical only in its trembling expression. —That's what it is, a disease, you can't live like we do without catching it. Because we get time given to us in fragments, that's the only way we know it. Finally we can't even conceive of a continuum of time. Every fragment exists by it-self, and that's why we live among palimpsests, because finally all the work should fit into one whole, and express an entire perfect action, as Aristotle says, and it's impossible now, it's impossible, because of the breakage, there are pieces everywhere . . . Suddenly Otto's hand shot up to his inside breast pocket: one might have thought he'd been bitten, so involuntary had this reflex become. —A nation of watchmakers, can you imagine any country better qualified to make atom bombs? —Oh God, to be in Europe, anywhere in Europe, even in France . . . —Maude, is this yours? Big Anna was wearing it under her shirt. —Even in Mauberge, even in a coal mine. Otto's face expressed nothing: unobserved, his features apparently had no reason to arrange themselves one way or another. His brow was level and without lines, his lips together and even. But slight marks of agitation drew up round his eyes when he raised them toward the door, where Esther stood with a woman wearing an orchid upside-down, and two or three others clustered about the guest of the evening, who afforded a spectacle of sartorial sloppiness and postural dilapidation consistent with the humility 'which he offered, in his soul-searching best-selling book, to share with others. At that moment Esther caught his eye with a querulous look which drew Otto's face up in immediate confusion, and widened his bloodshot eyes; though why, he could hardly have said, as he turned and pretended to be speaking with the woman in the collapsed ma-ternity dress who had just said, —Monasteries are a good thing for America, they help keep the homosexuals off the streets. Then Otto saw Anselm, who was whistling with soft harshness through his teeth, and watching Stanley. Otto looked away quickly, as though fearing to be recognized, and accused of something; but Anselm kept whistling, and watching Stanley. —This self-sufficiency of fragments, that's where the curse is, fragments that don't belong to anything. Separately they don't mean anything, but it's almost impossible to pull them together into a whole. And now it's impossible to accomplish a body of work without a continuous sense of time, so instead you try to get all the parts together into one work that will stand by itself and serve the same thing a lifetime of separate works does, something higher than itself, and I ... this work of mine, three hundred years ago it would have been a Mass, because the Church ... 616