The Lost Weekend (10 page)

He went into the bathroom again, loosened his collar and tie, and began to shave.
One
thing they could never say about him: he was never not neat. He never let himself go to that extent. He still had some pride and self-respect left. But what good did it do him? Control was gradually slipping away. Who knew what he might not do next? I’ve got to watch myself, I’ve certainly got to
watch
myself; no telling what undreamed-of fantastic thing he might catch himself doing next. Catch himself? If he could only be sure of that! But last night it had gone so far that others had caught him first.

There was no sense in going down now and cooling your heels in front of a bar that hadn’t opened yet. Stand there leaning against the door, looking at the clock inside, while other people hurried past you to work. He hadn’t sunk that low, either. Or maybe this clock here this God-damned Dutchman’s little clock was slow. He went into the bedroom and sat down at the desk and picked up the ’phone and dialed ME-7-1212. He listened breathless
to the breathless voice, with the oddly questioning lift at the end: “When yew hear the sig-nal, the tie-yum will be seven-fifty-fie-yuv and thrrree-quar-ters.” He did not wait for the signal, he said “Thank you” automatically and hung up. Fool! he said as he went for his coat. Why the hell did I thank her, she can’t hear me.…

He found his coat and vest lying in a heap on the floor at the end of the couch. He went through the pockets. He fished out all the money and spread it on the table and counted it. My God there was twenty-six dollars and something. Talk about windfalls. Today of all days!

He did not go to Sam’s place. Not because Gloria would be there (because she wouldn’t, she didn’t come till noon). But he wanted to start off someplace else, today. Maybe Sam’s later. He went to a little bar-and-grill just below 55th and thank Christ the bartender was on time.

“Rye, please.”

The bartender looked at him. “Double?”

He checked an impulse to draw himself up. “No!” Where had the guy got
that
idea? He ought to be put in his place. Just because you came around at eight-something in the morning, did that necessarily mean—? They were open for business, weren’t they? Well, then?

He ignored the drink for a minute or two. He picked up a
News
that was lying on the counter, folded back at the editorial page. He scanned The Inquiring Fotographer column: “Do you sleep raw at night or do you wear pajamas?” He glanced at a cartoon called The Family—somebody’s idea of an aristocratic middle-aged couple discussing politics in language never heard on land or sea. He reached for the glass, looked at it critically a moment, then drank.

He ordered another and faced the mirror. There was no sense in working himself into a fright, all because of something that had happened last night when he wasn’t responsible, wasn’t
himself—something that hadn’t turned out disastrously, after all. Not as bad as it might have. But it was a warning, a dangersignal, one of the sharpest he had yet met up with. In spite of his trying to rationalize the whole episode of last night and his fear today, a sinking sensation plunged down through his breast again and again, his body began to get hot all over, his palms sweated: it was shame.

He drank the second drink in one swallow, and a third, and in a moment or two he felt better. Now he could begin to take it easier, why not, he had the whole day ahead of him, several days, there was money in his pocket, plenty money—really, come to think of it, he hadn’t a care in the world. Absurd silly cheating little glasses; thick; all run to fat, as it were. All bottom. You could probably pour the contents into a thimble. Surely a dozen of these wouldn’t be the equivalent of the kind he drank from at home.

On the mantel over the bar, tilted against the mirror, was a yellow card advertising the double-feature at the Select next door. Greta Garbo in
Camille
, and some other movie. It was like a summons, for God’s sake. He had seen the picture three times during the week it opened on Broadway, a month or so ago. All of a sudden (but no, it was too early, it would have to wait) he had to see again that strange fabled face, hear the voice that sent shivers down his spine when it uttered even the inconsequential little sentence (the finger-tips suddenly raised to the mouth as if to cover the rueful smile): “It’s my birthday.” Or the rapid impatient way, half-defiant, half-regretful, it ran off the words about money: “And I’ve never been very particular where it came from, as you very well know.” And oh the scene where the Baron was leaving for Russia—how she said “Goodbye.… goodbye” like a little song. (“Come with me!” The shake of the head and the smile, then; and the answer: “But Russia is so co-o-old—you wouldn’t want me to get ill again, would you,” not meaning this was the reason she couldn’t go, not even pretending to mean it.) He knew the performance by heart, as one knows a loved piece of music:
every inflexion, every stress and emphasis, every faultless phrase, every small revelation of satisfying but provocative beauty. There was a way to spend the afternoon!—The bartender slid the bottle across the counter and this time he poured the drink himself.

Of course they had let him go last night—of course they had! They didn’t want any trouble with the police, did they? Isn’t that what always happened when something like that occurred in a bar? They let the fellow get away with it, let him get as far as the door, and then nabbed him. They didn’t want to accuse him while he was at the table, not while he was still on the premises, inside and upstairs. That would mean a row, maybe, and calling the police, and probably frightening or upsetting everybody in the place and ruining business for the night. The customers would think it was a raid, like the old days. No, the thing to do was let him get as far as the very entrance, take the purse away from him there, and then kick him out. Nobody wanted to press charges anyhow—what was the good? Boot him into the street and be done with him.

Quickly he picked up the bottle and poured another drink, then set it down again with a great show of relaxation. The bartender glanced at him out of the corner of his eye every few minutes, or turned his back and watched him in the mirror. It was plain that he couldn’t figure him out. Well, what of it, he couldn’t figure himself out, sometimes. Not often but sometimes.

How the cab-drivers had watched the whole business in silence. Looked at him without a word as he straightened his coat and walked off. If they had only laughed or something. He couldn’t have taken one of those cabs for anything in the world. Faced the driver through a long drive uptown. Well, not had to face him, exactly. But sitting in silence in the backseat would have been worse, while the driver sat just as silent up front. Could he have maybe kidded the driver about his name, called him by his first name as it was revealed on the lighted card between the seats? And when they arrived, getting out, having to hand the
driver his money, listen whether he said Thank you or not. Christ he couldn’t think of that now, mustn’t, wouldn’t. He felt the need to talk.

“Are you a News fan?”

“What?”

“I see a News on the bar here.”

“Some drunk left it last night.”

A crack. But he wasn’t going to be thrown off, not by that.

“What’s the matter, don’t you like the News?”

“It’s all right.”

“I always read ‘How He Proposed.’ I dearly love ‘How He Proposed.’ ”

The bartender picked up a tumbler and began polishing.

“Oh, and ‘Embarrassing Moments.’ Ever notice how they’re always about some poor dope of a stenographer with delusions of grandeur? She puts on the dog about her wonderful wardrobe or husband’s fine job or something, and of course always gets caught.”

“Never noticed.”

“How can they write such stuff about themselves. Signed and everything. They don’t seem to mind a bit.”

“Ayuh?”

“Maybe it’s the two dollars.”

“Ayuh.”

He looked searchingly at the bartender. “What’s the matter, you tired or something?”

“I’m busy, Jack.”

It had been the waiter upstairs, the waiter with the Charles Boyer accent. He must have seen it all along. From the beginning. But how could he? The waiter had never shown by the slightest sign that he knew what was going on—any more than
he
showed it. He knew he couldn’t have been smoother, cagier, more the master of his every smallest move—as only the drunk can be who is just drunk enough, just enough to know exactly
what he is doing, with a clarity denied the sober. Oh, and not know, too. That was the humiliating and the dangerous part of it. Drunk enough to know what
he
was doing but not the others. Concentrating so closely on himself, studying his own performance so intensely, that he lost track of everybody else, forgot they were able to see too—able to see him and what he was up to in a way he couldn’t see at all. Why hadn’t they
told
him (as he would have done for another), why hadn’t somebody tipped him off that he was going too far, why hadn’t someone been decent enough to come over to his table and say “Careful there, friend, you’re headed for trouble, we see you”? But no, they had all sat by or sat back and let it happen, waited for it to happen—sure, why not, it wasn’t happening to them!

It was silly staying on in this stinking place, the bartender was a suspicious crab, it was nine o’clock, the liquor store would be open by now. He paid and left.

He stood in the middle of the wide clean liquor store and deliberated. A quart would be enough for now; he’d be out again later, probably half a dozen times. Scotch for a change. He named the brand, stopped himself just as he was about to say “Don’t bother to wrap it,” and put the money on the counter. Funny how you could say it when buying a tube of tooth-paste or a box of Shredded Wheat or anything else under the sun. But naturally you didn’t care whether or not the clerk would think you were too anxious to get at the tooth-paste or Shredded Wheat the moment you got home—which naturally the clerk wouldn’t think to begin with.…

The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue.…
How could he ever communicate to anyone the sense of luxury he felt as he came into the flat with the Scotch under his arm? The day was his, the drink, the whole place. And no one knew where he was and what he was doing. He opened the lid of the gramophone, released the switch, and set going the record that was on. He got a clean glass from the kitchen, tore off the paper bag and the foil wrapping of
the bottle, and poured himself a decent drink. He carried it to the big chair in the corner and sat down.

Schnabel was hammering out the Rondo of the
Waldstein
. As the music increased in volume and acceleration, as the new drink warmed his stomach, he lay back in the big chair and deliberately and consciously went into his favorite daydream, planning and plotting it out as if it were a delightful treat he had long promised himself and one of these days meant to get around to.

It was a dream he could re-live forever and had already enjoyed many dozens of times. He came out on the stage of Carnegie Hall, smiled, bowed, sat down at the piano, and awaited the assignment. He did not wear white tie, tails, and a stiff-bosom. He was in grey flannels, comfortable sport-shoes, soft sleeveless sweater, and a white shirt. No jacket or vest, no tie. He glanced about the packed expectant house and wondered indifferently how many would stay to the finish, long after midnight. Most of them, probably; the evening had been announced in the paper for weeks, the house had long since been sold out, music circles talked of little else, everybody wanted to be in on this unique and extraordinary event.… The little group of critics were still in a huddle down front, just beyond the footlights. They had arrived long before anyone else (they were supposed to have gathered at six, he believed), they buzzed among themselves and conferred and whispered, exchanged notes and sneered at each other’s taste, got cross with one another, looked up things in books, finally came to a grudging agreement around nine-fifteen, and handed the finished list to a waiting typist. Then one of them climbed up onto the stage, turned about to face the auditorium, raised his hand and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen. As you know—” The vast restless mumble of the house died down. “As you know,” he began again, “we are gathered here tonight to witness how a great artist shall meet, if he can, a challenge unique in musical history. If he wins, the feat and the victory shall ring forever throughout
Euterpe’s storied halls. Mr. Birnam has yet no idea what his program tonight is to be. He will not know until I read from this list which my colleagues and I have only just completed.” He waved the little paper. “I beg your indulgence and forgiveness for being a bit tardy, but we were at some pains to agree on just which works of which masters Mr. Birnam was to play to us. From Poulenc back to Scarlatti”—(Did he mean Alessandro the father, Don wondered, or Domenico the son?)—“from Buxtehude down to Copland, the literature of the pianoforte offers a range so rich that our task was, you may well imagine, most difficult indeed. To say nothing of Mr.
Bir
nam’s task, I might add”—and he waited for the appreciative laughter and applause which obligingly swept the house. “Not to try your generous patience any further, then, perhaps I should announce the opening number without more ado. And of course, each succeeding work, as the program progresses, will be similarly announced—but only just be
fore
it is to be played.” He turned. “Mr. Birnam, are you ready, Sir?” Mr. Birnam nodded. “Very well: Sonata Number 12, in F Major, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.” Mr. Birnam permitted himself a small smile and said, barely aloud: “Köchel
Verzeichnis
331.” The critic murmured “Oh yes, yes of course; I meant to add—” He plucked in confusion at the black ribbon of his pince-nez, hurried back over the footlights, and Mr. Birnam began.…

The Rondo was finished. He put the record back in the album and got out the 1st Movement. He set it on the revolving disk and went to his chair again. A dream indeed. Comic, to be sure; ridiculous, childish; but—most musical, most melancholy.…