The Recognitions (19 page)

—I don't know, Esther, there was something about that translucent quality of his, that round chin and thin hair and those plastic-rimmed eyeglasses, that brown suit . . . 

—He can't help what he looks like. 

—Hasn't he got a mirror? And that yellow necktie with palm-trees on it. There's just something about soft-handed complacent fools like that pontificating on ... 

—He's not complacent, Don suffers a good deal. 

—I suppose he's given you every heart-rending detail. 

—He talks to me. He talks to me more than . . . She stopped to sniff, and lit her cigarette. 

—More than what? 

—Never mind. Do you know what it looked like? 

—What what looked like. 

—It looked like all of a sudden you were trying to impress that boy Otto. 

—Impress him? 

—You were being . . . really, you were being just too clever and . . . coquettish. 

—Esther, good God! Esther. He got to his feet. 

—Do you think he's homosexual too? she asked calmly. 

—Otto? How in heaven's name . . . what do you mean, too? 

—Nothing, she said, looking down. 

—Too? Listen . . . good God. His hands dropped to his sides. 

—Well why you should be so nice to a conceited pretentious boy, and try to make a fool out of a nice person like Don when he wants to talk to you about things that interest you, and his wife . . . 

—Well damn it, there it is, his wife. That woman! do you know her? Did you hear her? ... As Don says in his piece in the religious symposium, he has a religion too though maybe you wouldn't suspect it because he's so philosophical ... 

—All right, let's forget about it. 

—Forget about it? forget about her? peering out through her granulated eyelids . . . Esther tells us you're so original, you must tell me more about
your
work, you must know all the tricks . . . The tricks! 

—Well she tries, Wyatt, you mustn't be unkind, and she tries to paint herself. 

—She can paint herself red and hang on the wall and whistle, I don't care, but not here. . . Esther tells us ... Esther says . . . good God! what have you told them? 

—What's the matter? I've never seen you like this, Wyatt, she said sinking into a chair. 

—Well what have you told them? About me, that I need psycho-analysis? 

—I've had to talk to someone. 

—Well . . . you . . . listen, he stood before her with his hands quivering in the air. —Damn it, if you think I need a psychoanalyst . . . 

—Please don't swear at me. 

—Listen, did you see her . . . reading my hands? . . . My, they're strong aren't they, but you must give me the left one too, I hope it does something to justify
this
. . . Did you see her, dragging her grubby little fingers over my palm? . . . There, the left one is so much better, but I've never seen such a complete dichotomy, she said, . . . that's one of Don's words, it means two things that describe each other like black and not black, and your right hand is so rough . . . Even when I got away from her she went on, did you hear her? . . . Your left hand is so gentle, so soft, it understands, and your right hand is so rough, that means your judgment is much better than your will, why do you try to follow your will as though it ran your life? Your left hand does, but you work against yourself, don't you, so stubborn, not happy, not happy, your left hand has love, what a lonely person you are, good God! 

—Wyatt . . . 

—And then, ... is it possible? can a man be jealous of himself? Damn it, listen Esther, did you see what she tried to do? she almost kissed me goodbye? Why, she's insane. But she goes out on the street and nobody's surprised to see her, she talks and nobody's surprised to hear her. It's suffocating. Right this minute, she's talking. They're down there right this minute and that woman with the granulated eyelids is talking. You look up and there she is, people . . . the instant you look at them they begin to talk, automatically, they take it for granted you understand them, that you recognize them, that they have something to say to you, and you have to wait, you have to pretend to listen, pretend you don't know what's coming next while they go right on talking with no idea what they're talking about, they don't even know but they go right on, trying to explain who they are because they take it for granted you want to know, not that they have the damnedest idea as far as that goes, they just want to know what kind of a receptacle you'll be for their confidences. How do they know I'm the same person that . . . Who are they, to presume such intimacy, to ... go right on talking. And they really believe that they're talking to me! 

—Darling you shouldn't have let her upset you so, Esther said to him. 

—Upset rne! Did you hear her talking about her analysis with her husband? Her
lay
analysis? . . . Don's being analyzed, but we can't afford it for both of us, so he analyzes me. My paintings help, they're really pure symbols in the process of individuation Don says . . . Lay analysis! and she titters, one of those . . . little minds where naughtiness breeds intimacy, when she said to you, I've been trying to make your husband come out of his shell but he just won't
come
, . . . and she titters. She was sitting there . . . 

—That's enough, Wyatt, really. 

—No listen, she was sitting there watching the two of you, you and Don, sitting here with her knees hanging apart and Otto staring up her garter straps, He should have an affair now, she said. Don, he needs one now. 

—Wyatt, please ... 

—He knew Esther before she was married, she said to me. . . Don knew Esther before she was married. 

—Where are you going? Esther asked when he turned away. He did not answer but walked toward the studio door. —Wyatt, she said, getting up to follow, —please . . . 

—It's all right, he said, going on through the doorway, and the bright light came on overhead. 

A few minutes later Esther appeared in the door, her make-up freshened, her hair pushed up to where she thought it belonged. A drying lamp had been turned on the portrait, and she looked at it. He had done an excellent job and she, fresh from her mirror, stared at the flesh of the face on the easel as clear as her own. —I'll miss it, she said. —I'll be glad to see it gone but . . . but I'll miss it. Something moved. She turned, but it was not he. In the mirror ("to correct bad drawing . . .") she caught his reflection, and realized he was behind the table. —I'm sorry, these things happen, but now, you're not upset are you? now? 

—No, no, it's just that . . . the rest of us ... He drank down some brandy, and sat staring at some papers on the table before him. —I don't know, there are things we have to do, so we do them together. We have to eat, so we eat together. We have to sleep and we sleep together but ... all that? does it bring us any closer together? 

—But you . . . can't . . . not . . . 

—But they're gone, he went on more calmly, looking back at the papers. —Thank God you thought of something, that excuse about our going somewhere else together, to get rid of them. 

—But I ... I really wanted to go. 

—Esther. . . He got up quickly and came over to her. —Don't, don't, I'm sorry. Of course we'll go, if you want to, I didn't understand, Esther, but don't cry. 

(For the first time in months) he put his arm around her, but his hand, reaching her shoulder, did not close upon it, only rested there. They swayed a little, standing in the doorway, still holding each other together in a way of holding each other back: they still waited, being moved over the surface of time like two swells upon the sea, one so close upon the other that neither can reach a peak and break, until both, unrealized, come in to shatter coincidentally upon the shore. 

It was colder, outside where the deer still hung by their heels, and the rosettes still bloomed where they'd been planted. A small army of men moved through the streets, collecting twenty-five thousand tons of boxes and colored paper, beribboned refuse from Christmas. 

Esther started. 

—What is it? 

—Just a chill, down my back. It's chilly here. She stared up at the pressed tin ceiling. —It's not the kind of place I expected. 

—What, what did you expect? 

—You said gypsy. 

—Some greasy Hungarian dipping his violin bow in your soup? 

—I didn't mean . . . please. I didn't mean I don't like it, I like it. When were you in Spain? 

—Spain? He looked up surprised. —I've never been in Spain. 

—But you've told me . . . 

—My father, my father . . . 

—And your mother. To think you never told me. 

—What? 

—Your mother, buried in Spain. Why are you smiling? 

—The music. —It's exciting, isn't it. Exciting music. I wonder why the place is almost empty. No . . . , she stayed his hand tipping the bottle over her glass, —I can't drink any more of it, what is it? She tipped her head to read the label, —La Guíta? 

—Manzanilla. 

—I don't feel very well, I shouldn't have had as much to drink earlier, martinis, and now this wine. I'm not used to just sitting and drinking so much wine. Wyatt? 

—Eh? 

—You've almost finished this bottle yourself. 

—Yes, we'll order another. 

—I wouldn't drink any more of it if I were you, Wyatt? 

—Ah? 

—I said . . . didn't you hear me? 

—I was listening to the music. 

—Can you understand it? 

—The music? 

—The words. 

—Sangre negro en mi corazón ... I can't speak Spanish. 

—Wyatt, couldn't we go? 

—You want to leave now? 

—I mean go, go to Spain, couldn't we, together? 

—What? 

—Oh don't . . . never mind, no. You couldn't take me there traveling, with your mother there. No, you . . . Morocco, following ants through the desert to see if they're guided by the stars, more Moroccan than ... I don't know, I wish . . . where are you going? 

—Men's room. 

She watched him cross the room unsteadily. He stopped at the bar. There was an elderly man with large features behind the bar, the waiter joined them, and then a stout and very pretty girl came from the kitchen. Esther watched them all talking and laughing, watched her husband buy them all three a drink, saw them raise their glasses, saw him pound his heels on the floor with the pounding heels from the music on the record in the dark juke-box; and a few minutes later the waiter approached the table opening another bottle. Earlier the waiter had stood over them and detailed the plot of a moving picture he'd seen that afternoon. His English was very choppy, and before they knew it he was describing the moving picture he'd seen the day before. These were very enthusiastic de-scriptions, as though they were details from his own life. He said his name was Esteban, and he came from Murcia. 

—But . . . did we order this? Esther asked, as he pulled the cork from the bottle. 

—Oh yes. El señor, your husband. Es muy flamenco, el señor. 

—What? 

—Is very flamenco, your husband. 

They watched him, standing now bent over the dark juke-box beside the pretty stout girl from the kitchen, saw him straighten up, laugh, and pound the floor again with his heel. 

—You understand what it mean, flamenco? 

—Yes, she murmured, watching him cross the room toward her, with his head up. He paused to say something to Esteban, and came on, looking at the floor. A chill touched her shoulders, and was gone. When he sat down, she said speaking quietly under the music, —How handsome you were just then. 

—What do you mean? He paused, filling his glass. 

—The way you were standing there, when you hit your heels on the floor, with your head up. Were you doing it on purpose, looking so arrogant? 

—You . . . make it sound theatrical. 

—No, but that's it, it wasn't that, up on a stage, not just you being arrogant, not just your expression, it was . . . you had the back of your head thrown back and kind of raised but still your face was up and open in ... I don't know, but not like you are sometimes now. She watched the glass shake slightly in his hand when he started to raise it, and he put it back on the table. —Wyatt, it's . . . sometimes when I come in and see you looking down and looking so lonely and . . . but just now, it was the whole man being arrogant, it was towering somehow, it was ... it had all the wonderful things about it, that moment, all the things that, I don't know, . . . but all the things we were taught that a man can be. He said nothing, and did not look up, but took out some cigarettes. —Heroic, she said quietly, watching him light a cigarette with his head down, and then in the same tone, —Could I have one too? 

—What? he asked, looking up quickly, and his burning green eyes shocked her. 

—A cigarette? He gave her one; and filled her glass while she lit it. She stared at his squared fingers gripping the thin stem of the glass, and after a minute asked, —What does flamenco mean? 

—Flemish. 

—Flemish? I don't see ... 

—From the costumes the Spanish soldiers wore back, after the invasion of the Lowlands in the seventeenth century. He sounded impatient and nervous, answering her. —Strange clothes, . . . the gypsies took them over, so they . . . called them flamenco. 

Esther leaned toward him at the table, with a smile of intimate confidence, and starting to put her hand to his said, —Do you know what, Wyatt? I didn't even know Spain had ever invaded . . . 

—Listen . . . , he said. He'd withdrawn his hand on the table top automatically. —That's what it is, this arrogance, in this flamenco music this same arrogance of suffering, listen. The strength of it's what's so overpowering, the self-sufficiency that's so delicate and tender without an instant of sentimentality. With infinite pity but refusing pity, it's a precision of suffering, he went on, abruptly working his hand in the air as though to shape it there, —the tremendous tension of violence all enclosed in a framework, . . . in a pattern that doesn't pretend to any other level but its own, do you know what I mean? He barely glanced at her to see if she did. —It's the privacy, the exquisite sense of privacy about it, he said speaking more rapidly, —it's the sense of privacy that most popular expressions of suffering don't have, don't dare have, that's what makes it arrogant. That's what sentimentalizing invades and corrupts, that's what we've lost everywhere, especially here where they make every possible assault on your feelings and privacy. These things have their own patterns, suffering and violence, and that's . . . the sense of violence within its own pattern, the pattern that belongs to violence like the bullfight, that's why the bullfight is art, because it respects its own pattern . . .