The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (105 page)

—Ellery, please . . . stop him, Esther said, in a low voice beside Ellery. He turned and looked at her, and he did, just then, have an expression very much like Benny’s, one of tense impatience, which in that instant of exchange between them seemed to direct everything
Benny had said, and was saying, at her. Everyone, within the bounds of what each considered either manners or sophistication, was watching; and most were watching the man on the couch. —Oh Chrahst I remember him, he’s the guy that married Deedee Jaqueson, and they kicked her out of the little black book for it. Chrahst, what a coincidence, Ed Feasley commented.

Rudy consoled a frightened group in one corner, with, —You know, he’s the kind who knows art but doesn’t know what he likes.

Don Bildow watched apprehensively from the other side of the room, where he had retired, and did not see Anselm who watched, silent and attentive. Mr. Feddle, clutching a book, had gained the front row. The back of Maude’s neck was being manipulated by strong fingers, stronger perhaps but not so vigorous as those twisting Stanley’s hand. He looked at Agnes and looked away quickly, as though afraid to provoke the tension in her face to burst in confidence to him.

A high voice broke the silence as Benny paused for breath. —So
there!
And that goes for your cat
too!
It was the Duchess of Ohio, who scurried back to cover.

The tall woman told someone that she and her husband were going to Spain in the spring, though she had hoped to be in Hawaii right now; someone said, —She rubs you the right way, does she? talking to someone else about someone else; Sonny Byron said, —Wake up, baby, the floor show’s over, and stroked Arny Munk’s forehead; the author of the best seller
Trees of Home
, who had kept his back turned to the room all this time, pretending conversation with Mr. Crotcher who was singing, said, to someone else, —How can I respect my readers when I know they’re just trying to get a cheap psychoanalysis at my expense? and was told that they probably thought that he was getting one at theirs; the dark man in the sharkskin suit said, —Yes, I was warned about this sort of thing in New York. Now about these battleships . . .

—A dreadful crime she did commit, did all the world surprise, sang Mr. Crotcher to the baby, whose chin rested on his shoe, which he jarred in approximate 2/4 time. —Black beetles in walnut shells . . .

—And that dumb bastard’s starting in again.

Ellery was holding Benny tight by one shoulder. —Come on, relax, forget the dumb bastard, he said. —Come on, Benny, take this. He held a full glass up, and Benny took it, and drank it down steadily and carefully. Then the empty glass hung in his hand like a weight.

—Get where I am, and then you can be bitter, Benny mumbled, staring into one of the few empty spaces in that room. —Do you
think I like these clothes? Do you think I like double-breasted snappy clothes, like . . . Do you think I like this God-damned awful necktie, do you call it a necktie this thing? These glasses? He reached for them twice, and the second time a finger caught one of the broad bows and they fell to the floor. —I’m a success, that’s why I’ve got a right to be bitter. God damn it. God damn it. How long do you think it is since
I
’ve seen the sun rise?

Though Mr. Feddle moved slowly, Benny raised his face as though the space before him had been materialized into an apparition. —Go on, said Mr. Feddle, hungrily. —Go on. I understand you. Go on.

—Isn’t that right? Benny said to him, reaching an arm to him which made an irregular arc and dropped between them.

—Come on, forget that jerk, you’ll be all right, Ellery said, supporting Benny. —You’re making a fool of yourself.

—Why?
Why?

—Go on. I understand you.

—That’s what I’ve got a right to do, I’ve got a right to haven’t I? Haven’t I? Isn’t that why I’ve worked, and worked, and . . .

—Go on . . .

—
Why?

Mr. Feddle darted in and embraced him. —Do you remember Fedya, in
Redemption?
in Tolstoy’s
Redemption?
he said, the alarm clock swinging between them. —“And you know . . .” His voice lowered, and he spoke more slowly, —“it’s a funny thing, but we love people for the good we do them, and we hate them for the harm . . .” Do you remember?

Benny stared into his face, as they separated and Mr. Feddle braced himself with excitement. —Go on . . . !

—But . . . dishonest . . . then, but now? Now? I got into this and I found everybody believed what they were doing. They all believe it, and after awhile you believe it too. You live with it for awhile and you believe it too. Friends. Do you think I have any friends? Everybody I know . . . I . . . they want something from me or I want something from them. Somebody asked me if my wife is here. My wife? I go home and we just sit and look at each other. Home? My home looks like a cocktail lounge. I read all the books. I read all the books about self-improvement, master yourself, develop your personality, be a good God-damned Christian and get something for nothing . . .

—Go on . . .

—Forget . . .

—If you’re doing something you hate, quit it while you still hate it . . .

—Go on . . .

—Relax . . .

—Because you were right the first time . . .

—Ellery,
please
stop him. Ellery looked down, to Esther hanging to his arm. —What can I do, he’s . . .

—And you . . . Benny turned to her, —He was your husband, wasn’t he. And you know, don’t you.
Don’t you
. You know who designed the bridge at Fallen Ark Gap . . . and the Cooper City viaduct . . .

—Why, I . . . Ellery, please. There’s something wrong.

—Go on . . .

—That’s what I wanted to do, that’s all I ever wanted to do. Where did he come from, sitting there at a draftsman’s table, and he could draw it as though he was making a sketch, but every tension was perfect, the balance was perfect, you can look at those bridges with my name on them and see them leap out to meet themselves, see them move in perfect stillness, see perfect delicate tension of movement in stillness, see tenderness in suspense . . . with my name on them,
I
designed them. Like hell I designed them. Do you know why? Benny looked into their faces, and suddenly took Mr. Feddle’s arm. —It was like a part of me working, like part of myself working there. Do you understand?

—Yes. Go on . . .

—And I couldn’t do it. He could do it and I couldn’t do it. Do you understand?

—Yes, yes . . .

—I couldn’t do it, Benny said; and for a moment the only sound was the ticking of Mr. Feddle’s clock. And called upon, not by alarms but by this insistent and accurate silence, several people turned to hear Mr. Feddle say, —Yes, yes, do you remember him? Fedya? In Tolstoy’s
Redemption?
“There was something terribly lacking between what I felt and what I could do . . .” Do you remember? Mr. Feddle had both hands on Benny’s shoulders; but Ellery thrust his hands aside. —Come on, Benny, you’ll be all right.

Benny had gone limp. He stood with the book on bridge design open, a page went over, and he was staring at a picture of Maillart’s bridge at Salginatobel, a glazed distance in his eyes as though he were indeed gazing the full ninety meters to the foot of the valley below. Then his eye caught something, scribbled in the margin,
The arch never sleeps
. —Look . . . ! he said, and read it aloud, stared at it silently and read it aloud again. —He wrote that here, didn’t he, I remember, I’ve heard him say that, he . . . yes . . . Suddenly he turned to Esther. —Could I ask you something? a favor? a gift from you? The pages of the book trembled in his hands. And if her
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 in
edi
ble, 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
Is
chia . . .

—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 . . .