The Early Stories (44 page)

“Come along? Where to?”

“You know. He seems more mature. I feel he's gotten a hold of himself. His view of things is better proportioned.”

“That's very perceptive. Who else do we know who's come along?”

“Well, I would say Harry Ducloss has. I was talking last week with a man Harry works for.”

“He said he's come along?”

“He said he thought highly of him.”

“ ‘Thought highly,' ” Fred said. “Fermann was always thinking highly of people.”

“I saw Fermann in the street the other day. Boy!”

“Not coming along?”

Clayton lifted his wrists so the waiter could clear away his plate. “It's just, it's”—with a peculiar intensity, as if Fred had often thought the same thing but never so well expressed it
—
“
something
to see those tin gods again.”

“Would you young men like dessert?” the waiter asked. “Coffee?” To
Fred: “We have nice freshly baked
Apfelstrudel
. Or
Bienenstiche
. Very nice. They are made right in the kitchen ovens.”

Fred deferred to Clayton. “Do you have time for coffee?”

Clayton craned his neck to see the clock. “Eight of two.” He looked at Fred apologetically. “To tell the truth—”

“No coffee,” Fred told the waiter.

“Oh, let's have it. It'll take just a few minutes.”

“No. I have all afternoon but I don't want to delay a workingman.”

“They won't miss me. I'm not
that
indispensable. Are you sure you don't want any?”

“Positive.”

“All ri-i-ght,” Clayton said in the dragged-out, musical tone of a parent acceding to a demand that will only do the child harm. “Could I have the check, please, waiter?”

“Certainly, sir.” The something sarcastic about that “sir” was meant for Fred to see.

The check came to $3.79. When Fred reached for his wallet, Clayton said, “Keep that in your pocket. This is on me.”

“Don't be a fool. The lunch was my idea.”

“No, please. Let me take this.”

Fred dropped a five-dollar bill on the table.

“No, look,” Clayton said. “I know you have the money—”

“Money! We
all
have money.”

Clayton, at last detecting anger, looked up timidly, his irises in the top of his too-big eyes, his chin tucked in. “Please. You were always quite kind to me. You went out on a limb for me. I knew that.”

It was like a plain girl opening her mouth in the middle of a kiss. Fred wordlessly took back his five. Clayton handed four ones and two quarters to the waiter and said, “That's right.”

“Thank
you
, sir.”

“Thanks a lot,” Fred said to Clayton as they moved toward the door.

“It's—” Clayton shook his head slightly. “You can get the next one.”

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

“I hope you didn't mind coming to this place.”

“A great place. Vy, sey sought I vuss Cherman.”

Outside, the pavement glittered as if cement were precious; Third Avenue, disencumbered of the el, seemed as spacious and queenly as a South American boulevard. In the harsh light of the two-o'clock sun,
blemishes invisible in the shadows of the restaurant could be noticed on the skin of Clayton's face—an uneven redness on the flesh of the nose, two spots on his forehead, a flaky area partially hidden beneath an eyebrow. Clayton's feet tended to shuffle backward; he was conscious of his skin, or anxious to get back to work. Fred stood still, making it clear he was travelling in the other direction. Clayton did not feel free to go. “You really want a job in advertising?”

“Forget it. I don't really.”

“I'll keep on the lookout.”

“Don't go to any trouble, but thanks anyway.”

“Thank
you
, for heaven's sake. I really enjoyed this. It's been good. Those were great old days.”

For a moment Fred felt regret; he had an impulse to walk a forgiving distance with Clayton.

But his
Quaff
mate, helplessly offensive, sighed and said, “Well. Back to the salt mines.”

“Well put.” Fred lifted his hand in a benign ministerial gesture. “Ye are the salt of the earth.
La lumière du monde
. The light of the world.
Fils de St. Louis, montez au ciel!
”

Clayton, bewildered by the foreign language, backed a step away and with an uncertain jerk of his hand affirmed, “See you.”

“
Oui. Le roi est un bon homme. Le crayon de ma tante est sur la table de mon chat. Baisez mes douces fesses. Merci. Merci
. Meaning thank you. Thanks again.”

His Finest Hour
 

First they heard, at eight p.m., the sound of a tumbler shattering. It was a distinct noise, tripartite: the crack of the initial concussion, the plump, vegetal
pop
of the disintegration, and the gossip of settling fragments. The glass might have been hurled within their own living room. To George this showed how thin the walls were. The walls were thin, the ceiling flaked, the furniture smelled ratty, the electricity periodically failed. The rooms were tiny, the rent was monstrous, the view was dull. George Chandler hated New York City. A native of Arizona, he felt that the unclean air here was crowded with spirits constantly cheating him. As the sincere Christian examines each occurrence for the fingerprints of the Providential hand, George read into each irregular incident—a greeting in the subway, an unscheduled knock on the door—possible financial loss. His rule was, Sit tight. This he did, not raising his eyes from the book with which he was teaching himself Arabic.

Rosalind, taller than her husband and less cautious, uncrossed her long legs and said, “Mrs. Irva must have dropsy.”

George didn't want to talk about it, but he could seldom resist correcting her. “That wasn't dropped, honey. It was thrown.”

Within the Irvas' rooms something wooden overturned, and it seemed a barrel was being rocked. “What do you suppose is wrong?” Rosalind had no book in her hand; evidently she had just been sitting there on the edge of the easy chair, waiting for something to listen to. She minded New York less than George. He hadn't noticed when she had come in from doing the dishes in the kitchenette. After supper every evening, he had his Arabic hour; during it he liked to be undisturbed. “Do you suppose something's the matter?” Rosalind persisted, slightly rephrasing her question in case he had heard it the first time.

George lowered his book with ostensible patience. “Does Irva drink?”

“I don't know. He's a chef.”

“You think chefs don't drink. Just eat.”

“I hadn't meant the two to be connected.” Rosalind made the reply blandly, as if he had simply misunderstood.

George returned to his book.
The imperfect with the perfect of another verb expresses the future perfect: “Zaid will have written.”
(Another glass was smashed, this time in a subdued way. A human voice could be heard, though not understood.)
When it is an independent verb, the subject is in the nominative and the complement in the accusative: “The apostle will be a witness against you.”

“Listen,” Rosalind said with the doomsday hiss of a wife who at night smells gas. He listened, hearing nothing. Then Mrs. Irva began to scream.

George immediately hoped that the woman was joking. The noises she made might have meant anything: fear, joy, anger, exuberance. They might have been produced mechanically, by the rhythmic friction of a huge and useful machine. It seemed likely that they would stop.

“What are you going to do?” Rosalind asked him. She had risen and was standing close to him, giving off an oppressive aroma of concern.

“Do?”

“Is there anyone we could get?”

Their janitor, a slender, blue-jawed Pole, was in charge of three other buildings and a grammar school, and made his visitations around dawn and midnight. Their landlady, a grim Jewish widow, lived across the Park, at a more acceptable address. Their only neighbor other than the Irvas was a young Chinese student in a room at the back of the building, behind the Chandlers' bedroom; his examinations over, he had inked, in a beautiful black calligraphy, an Ohio forwarding address onto the wall above his mailbox, and left.

“No, Karl! Decency!” Mrs. Irva shouted. Her voice, mingled with confused tumbling effects, had lost its early brilliance. Now hoarse, now shrill, her mouthings were frantic. “No, no, no, no, please God no!”

“He's killing her, George. George, what
are you doing?
”

“Doing?”

“Must
I
call the police?” She glared at him with an icy contempt that her good nature melted in seconds. She went to the wall and leaned against it gracefully, her mouth wide open. “They're turning on the faucet,” she whispered.

George asked, “You think we should interfere?”

“Wait. They're so quiet now.”

“They—”

“S
h-h-h!
”

George said, “She's dead, honey. He's washing the blood off his hands.” Even in these taut circumstances, he could not resist kidding her. In her excitement she fell right in with it.

“He has, hasn't he?” she agreed. Then, seeing his smile, she said, “You don't think he has.”

He squeezed her soft forearm kindly.

“George, he really has killed her,” Rosalind said. “That's why there's no noise. Break in!”

“Stop and think, honey. How do you know they're not—?”

Her eyes widened as the thought dawned on her. “Are there really people like that?” She was confused; the room beyond the wall was silent; it seemed to George that he had brought the incident to a conclusion.

“Help, please help,” Mrs. Irva called, rather calmly. Evidently this enraged her attacker, for in a moment she screamed with an intensity that choked her, as a baby at the height of a tantrum will nearly strangle. The noise, so irrational, such a poor reward for his patience, infuriated George; maddened into bravery, he opened his door and stepped out on the square of uncarpeted boards that served as an entrance hall to the three apartments. Standing there in its center, he seemed to see himself across a great span of time, as if he were an old man recalling a youthful exploit, recounting his finest hour. Fearless and lucid, he rapped his knuckles below the tacked card:
Mr. and Mrs. Karl Irva
. He sang out, “Everybody all right in there?”

“Be careful,” Rosalind pleaded, at the same time resting her hands on his back, threatening a shove forward. He turned to rebuke her and was offended to discover that, because of his crouching and her tiptoeing, her eyes were much higher than his.

“Do you want to run in yourself?” he snapped and, without thinking, turned the knob of the Irvas' door. It had not been locked.

He swung the door in timidly, gaining an upright slice of an American interior: dimly figured carpet, a slice of easy chair, a straw wastebasket beneath a television set seen sidewise, a bamboo lamp, a propped-up photograph, ochre wall, bad green ceiling. Nothing reflected disturbance. From the large unseen portion of the room, Mrs. Irva called, “Go away—he has a knife!” At the sound of her voice George slammed the door shut instinctively, keeping his hand on the knob, as if the door were his shield.

“We must help her,” Rosalind insisted.

“Get off my back,” he said.

“Lord,” Mrs. Irva moaned. George pushed open the door again, far enough to see one trace of disorder—an undershirt on a sofa arm. “Stay out!” the unseen woman called. “Get some help!” Again George closed the door.

A voice unmistakably Mr. Irva's asked without inflection, “Who have you fetched?” No answer was made. George was relieved. Though he had not seen Mrs. Irva, she might have supposed who he was. Footsteps unexpectedly thumped toward them, and the young couple fled to their own apartment, Rosalind skinning her husband's arm as she shut and bolted their door.