The Recognitions (33 page)

—I feel young again, among all of you, he said. —And I must tell you since I know you'll be interested. My poems are being published. 

—That's splendid. Congratulations. Things will be a lot easier for you and your wife now. Is she here? 

Mr. Feddle looked out into the room. —She was, he murmured, —she was, as he tottered away. 

—All you really need is a length of good piano wire . . . 

—Did you say you were writing a novel? Max asked Ed Feasley. 

—No, said Otto, —a play. I just finished a play, down in ... 

—Has anyone seen it? Max asked him. 

—No, I ... well . . . 

—I'd like to read it, Max said. 

—Would you? Let's see. I might get it to you tomorrow. It's one of those things, you can't really be sure of it until an outside person has seen it, said Otto explaining this sudden committal to himself and to them, as though he would show it to Max if he were uncertain. And Max smiled at Otto, as though he knew him very well, and had seen him often in another part of the jungle. 

The sound of singing seeped through the smoke. The singer was not singing for the group, but to himself as in encouragement. If ever a tattered dahlia bloomed in that brown plot, it was Herschel. His lyrics remained the same, though the tune was under no such restriction: 

—
I'm going down to Dutch Siam's, yes I am, . . . yes I am 

he sang from the floor, where he sat playing with his feet like any village idiot. He had not left his corner since introducing Max, Hannah, and Stanley, giving them all Christian names which he supplied himself, to a blonde Miss Adeline Thing. Those three were dumbfounded, then livid, and clamored to give Adeline their correct names; not bothering to ask hers they retired. 

—
Yes I am . . . (he was very drunk), — yes I am . . . 

Miss Thing was across the room, as far as she could be from him in that place, —He is pretty far gone, isn't he? Otto said; and as they turned to look he added, —I'd say he was a latent heterosexual. 

—I'm sorry, said an old lady at Max's arm. —Have you seen my husband? The old fool's probably drunk. 

—Oh Mrs. Feddle, no he's not at all drunk. He looks fine. I was so glad to hear that things are working out. Life should be a lot easier for you now. 

—Well, she said, weary, —it costs money to have things published, you know. She scanned the room, while Otto retreated to the bookcase. 

When among people he did not know, Otto often took down a book from which he could glance up and note the situation which he pretended to disdain. One evening he had read seventeen pages in Thomas of Brabant's
On Bees
that way. Now he found himself staring at Robert Browning: 

Well, and it was graceful of them: they'd break talk off and afford —She, to bite her mask's black velvet—he, to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
 

—Oh God! Agnes Deigh screamed with delight. —Darling! Her laughter seemed to clear the room of the smoke that hung like marsh gas, for long enough to glimpse her abandon before the tall Swede who had just arrived to hand her a key. —It's to my box, said, —and you mustn't lose it ever. I just don't trust myself, that's all. Why at any moment I'm liable to open that box and take out those divine dresses, those brrr beautiful bits of lingerie. Sometimes I just
have
to put them on. But if you have the key you won't let me give in, will you? 

—But tell us about Rome, darling. Paris. 

—I had the most divine trip back. You can't imagine anything more ghastly. On the very same boat with the right arm of Saint Ignatius of Loyola! Isn't that just too camp? You can't imagine, traveling with a relic. Victoria and Albert came with me. You can't imagine the contretemps we had when we landed . . . 

—. . .

—. . .?

—Tins of opium that he was trying to put onto himself with adhesive tape my dear, and in the heat of the cabin they blew up of course, simply blew up everywhere, and there they were covered with broken tins and that horrid sticky plaster everywhere, and poor Victoria had to drop a bottle of
Chanel
on the floor and smash it, just to cover up the
smell
. She's still sick with trench mouth. She got it kissing the Pope's ring. 

—But what shall
I
do with the key, darling? 

—Just keep if. hidden until I come screaming to have it. Wasn't that wild? On the very same boat, my dears, with that odious right arm, I met the person who stole my passport in Venice. Can you imagine being introduced to yourself? You can't. Poor boy, they took him right off to prison, even though I offered to keep him in my custody. They wouldn't let me keep him. Isn't that divine? I hear the most touching stories about life in prisons. 

—When did you get back? 

—Just this very morning. And do you know the filthy trick they played? There I was, at Rudy's apartment, I left all my luggage there covered with the most adorable stickers from everywhere, my dears, every chic hotel you ever heard of. And when I came back tonight they had put all my bags out into the hallway, but do you know what they'd done? You cannot imagine. Simply torn off all those divine labels and stuck the most horrid vulgar things on, all over my beautiful bags, simply covered with labels from Shredded Wheat packages and Kotex boxes, isn't that the most vile thing? 

—But Friday night. You'll have your dinner clothes? 

—Never never again. I lent them to a divine young Sicilian boy on the way over. He committed suicide in them and I just didn't have the heart to ask for them back . . . 

The smoke settled quickly, the guests were found again and knitted together with tendrils of conversation. The flat girl said, —A eulogy on a Wall Street man who lives in Westchester: Birth and commutation and death, that's all . . . 

—Copulation, said Stanley, indignantly loud, cutting the asthmatic laughter she had earned. He was staring at the girl on the couch. 

—Why Stanley, Agnes Deigh admonished from the chair below him, and reached a spray of white fingernails soothingly toward his face. But the consecrated mind thrust the vagrant heart aside. —It's "birth and copulation and death," he said to the profane girl. 

—But she's joking, darling, said Agnes Deigh as her hand reached his trembling chin. 

"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair too—what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms?
 

Otto looked up, avoiding the eyes of Max. She was watching him, suddenly, still hidden on the couch. Pretending he had not noticed her, he let a few pages slip under his finger and continued. 

And she was alone. The sight of her had startled him: looking out at nothing, her lips silent and almost smiling while the rest chattered, her body still where everyone else shifted, conscious only in herself while all the others were only self-conscious. Alone on the couch, and alone in the room like the woman in that painting whose beauty cannot be assailed, whose presence cannot be discounted by turning one's back, but her silence draws him to turn again, uncertain whether to question or answer. Otto put the book back in the shelf, and started toward her. Then a tweed arm was around his shoulders. Beside him someone was saying, —There was a woman in Brooklyn who used to do it, but I think the police got her. She charged two hundred dollars. And someone else said, —Is this the first one she's ever had? You can't let it go much longer than two months. —She might make something on the side, a third person said, —You get two dollars an ounce for mother's milk these days.

—Someone has been very cru-el not introducing us, said the owner of the tweed arm. Otto freed himself and set off again, as someone in the other group said, —I'm surprised she's never been in a mess like this before.

Through the smoke, among the bumping buttocks and wasted words, he arrived. She looked up and smiled. —May I get you something? he asked her. He had taken out the cigarette package and put the last remaining cigarette between his lips, which were dry. —I'm sorry, it's my last, he said, struggling to light it, and then in confusion, —Oh I'm sorry, I should have . . . He stood gesturing at her with the fuming cigarette. 

—I'd like a cigarette, she said. 

—But I ... here, take this. He had forgotten the casual stance, the raised eyebrows, lips moistened, slightly parted. His mouth was dry, and palms wet with perspiration. —I'm sorry. Let me get you one. 

—No, I have some I think, she said, and reached for her bag on the floor. —My name is Esme, she told him when she sat up with a cigarette. 

—Oh. Is it? said Otto, struggling to open a small match box with one hand. She helped him with the light, looking into the room beyond him. Her large eyes were exaggerated in their beauty by the hollows of her thin face, and the image he sought, distended afloat on their surfaces, drowned and was gone. 

—Yes. And you? 

—Me? Oh. My name's Otto, he said. A face to lose youth for, to occupy age, with the dream of, meet death with . . . 

—But won't you sit down? 

He sat. 

The room was filled with smoke, dry worn-out smoke retaining in it like a web the insectile cadavers of dry husks of words which had been spoken and should be gone, the breaths exhaled not to be breathed again. But the words went on; and in those brief interruptions between cigarettes the exhalations were rebreathed. —I don't know, he told me he was a negative positivist. —Well he told me he was a positive negativist. —Incidentally have you read
Our Contraceptive Society?
—My dear fellow, I wrote it, for Christ sake. Adeline had been cornered by Ed Feasley, who was telling her that the trouble with America was that it was a matriarchy and had no fatherland myth. Someone said, —No one here really understands New York. It's a social experience. Max was discussing or-gone boxes as though he had lived in one all of his life. Buster Brown had an arm around Sonny Byron, a young Negro said to be descended from an English poet of whom few in the room had heard. One of the policemen was asleep. The other sat holding his glass, making faces at no one. Anselm was working his way round the wall, so as not to lose his balance, toward the window. The chinless Italian boy was standing all alone, looking at the painting.  Charles was in the bathroom looking through the medicine cabinet. Hannah was divided between intellect and emotion: on the one hand, arguing that D. H. Lawrence was impotent with a youth in eye-shadow who insisted that at heart he was a "raving queen"; on the other, she was trying to protect Stanley from Agnes Deigh, where he sat on the arm of her chair with the white fingertips dug into his knee. 

—Sometimes I know just what it must be like, being the left arm of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, said the big Swede, who looked ready to weep. 

—Baby, don't touch me, said Herschel, —my head is bracka-phallic, and he began to sing as he sank back toward the floor. Anselm managed to reach the window, which he opened, and crawled to the fire-escape, making a mess in someone's yard below. 

The critic in the green wool shirt was stooped over the poet, saying —These snotty kids who come out of college and think they can write novels. 

Mr. Feddle was busy inscribing the fly-leaf of a book. 

Someone came in at the door with a manila envelope under his arm, and went over to the policeman who was making faces. —The radio in your patrol car is making a hell of a racket, he said. The policeman buttoned his tunic over the mangy red sweater and went out. Then the boy who had come in said, —It's snowing. 

—Chrahst, how unnecessary, said Ed Feasley. He had just told Adeline that the literal translation of the German word for marry,
freien
, was to free; for aside from immediate intentions she was being considered as a character in forthcoming fiction. This Harvard boy who had never learned a trade watched her with indulgent curiosity. 

—
Ye haven't an arm and ye haven't a leg, Hulloo, hulloo . . .

sang Adeline's sometime escort from a far corner, with sudden cheer as though he'd just discovered the song. 

(he sang, delighted with such a device), and an unlikely chorus followed: 

I'm going down to Dutch Siam's, yes I am . . . 

Then someone said loudly what everyone had been suspecting. —There's no more to drink. The room quieted. Even the eyeless noseless chickenless egg was abandoned, as its chorister struggled to an optimistically vertical position against the bookcase. 

—Oh God, said Agnes Deigh. —Give me my bag will you darling? she asked an anonymous trouser seat, pulling at the coat which hung above but did not match. She handed a folded twenty-dollar bill to a boy wearing her racing colors and stood, saying —I've got to go to the can anyhow, where is it? 

Hannah had been watching her. She felt in the pockets of the deep-seated denim pants, came up with nothing, and said, —What time is it? to Max, probably the only other sober person in the room. 

—Three-fifteen, said Max, for whom time was also a matter of the clock. 

She sniffed, as with a personal grievance. —It's disgusting, giving a string of Mozart operas as benefits so they can buy new scenery for
The Ring
. Mozart pimping for Wagner. And that old bag, she added, —with her Mickey Mouse watch. Then she looked down the room and asked, —Who's that skinny girl on the couch, with that . . . Otto? 

—She writes poems, her name's Esme. I think she's been modeling for some painter. She hasn't got any stomach. 

—I've heard about her, Hannah muttered. —On the needle. A schiz. 

—Manic depressive, schizoid tendencies, Max elaborated. —Has anybody ever seen her child? 

—Child? She's a mother, her? She's too fucking spiritual.