Still, it was to him they appealed, (for that time coined dead in his pocket). ——In just a moment, Necrostyle will bring you the correct time. But first, friends, do you feel dull, logy, just not-up-to-much, first thing in the morning? Well . . . Mr. Pivner took his injection with great care, as he always did. When he was finished, he was told that the correct time was six-thirty. He was startled at that; and on second thought he lifted the gold watch out of his pocket by its chain, opened it, and pulling out a lever on the side he turned the stem, and brought the gold filigree hands into concert with his own affairs.
——Every hour, on the half-hour, the latest news, brought to you by . . .
He was suddenly in a hurry. He removed the robe with reluctant care and put on his jacket. He moved around the room, straightening things, or only touching them, as the voice rehearsed unimproved details of the war which no one talked about, commencing a summary of the same news summarized an hour before, which it had taken that hour to rewrite. He hung the robe carefully, and noticing its lopsidedness as he did so, removed the gold watch and put it into his vest pocket, not pausing to thread the chain through a buttonhole, for he was in a hurry, having intended to reach the hotel well before seven o’clock tonight. He put on his coat, and the green scarf, and had his hat in hand before he went to turn off the radio, waiting courteously, as he did from habit for the voice to finish a last-minute bulletin. —In the metropolitan area, police are on the look-out tonight for a large man with a red, noticeably swollen face, who is believed to have abducted a group of seven Boy Scouts.
It had begun to snow again. Mr. Pivner hurried along the slippery sidewalk and caught a bus almost immediately. It did, in fact, wait for him, which put him in even better spirits as he sat down and looked out the window, allowing himself to marvel at this dreadnaught which bore him away to the south, and the wonders of science which made it, not simply possible, but ordinary. Then the bus drew to a stop, and moved again reduced to a crawl, a cautious hulk in the solid dark line of vehicles. Traffic in the other direction was stopped; and as though conducting tourists reverently past a venerable setting of martyrdom, the bus crept past the figure of a man on the glistening wet surface of the street. One of his feet was balanced up on the toe. His hat was four feet away, and all that moved was his smashed umbrella, its black festoons stirred by bits of wind. It was the image of the foot, so delicately awry, which held Mr. Pivner even as they went on. His bus passed another, stopped in line in the opposite direction. His driver leaned out, to call to the other driver, —Ya got a knockdown.
Mr. Pivner’s lips were moving again. He opened his newspaper, and stared for a moment at the headline, Minister Dies in 51-Day Fast Seeking “Perfect Will of God,” trying to compose himself. Then he turned the pages looking for that ad, If you can count, you can paint . . . There were times when he had considered taking up a hobby, painting? or building ships in bottles; but something that would interest him. Seeking those words, I did it myself, his eye caught a picture: Raise Chinchillas! in Your Own Home . . . No Mess! No Trouble!
They all appealed to him, counting him excellently satisfactory just as he was; but if, on learning mistrust so late, he was not: how would they reward his ingratitude? how requite his betrayal?
Science assures us that it is getting nearer to the solution of life, what life is, that is (“the ultimate mystery”), and offers anonymously promulgated submicroscopic chemistry in eager substantiation. But no one has even begun to explain what happened at the dirt track in Langhorne, Pennsylvania about twenty-five years ago, when Jimmy Concannon’s car threw a wheel, and in a crowd of eleven thousand it killed his mother.
Mr. Pivner stared at the chinchillas. They looked warm.
“Here’s to fire, not the kind that burns down shanties . . .” he found himself reading a few minutes later, bound by necessity before this scribbling on the wall. He shifted his eyes, chagrined at being seen staring with such attentive preoccupation at this, and the various graffiti surrounding it, even by the young man similarly preoccupied, and equivalently occupied, beside him. But the pictograph his eye caught was so alarming that he lowered his eyes, glimpsing in that brief embarrassed sweep, the face beside him, a haggard face drawn over a sharp profile which stared intently ahead. And his eyes were drawn slowly back up this figure his own height, near the same stature, slowly up, then snagged, drawn up short, and back, caught on a corner of green. And he was staring at that, down at the bit of wool protruding from the coat’s pocket, waist-level, when the whole face turned on him, turned bloodshot eyes in a desolation of contempt.
Instantly Mr. Pivner returned square before him: “But the kind that burns in young girls panties.” And after a shrugged fluster and buttoning beside him, he was alone.
—Is that old jerk going to come in here every night now, just sitting here in the lobby? the tall bellboy demanded as he emerged a moment later, and the night manager approached him. —Perhaps you would care to wait in the bar for the rest of the evening, sir?
—That young man, Mr. Pivner managed, —he, who just left?
—I believe he has been a guest of the hotel.
—Oh well yes, well then, no . . . Mr. Pivner lowered his eyes to the shining tips of the night manager’s shoes. —But . . . ! he looked up suddenly: eyes as bright, and incurious as the shoetops, dismissed him.
—If the young man you have described . . .
—Yes, thank you, thank you . . . Mr. Pivner hurried into the bar, and there ordered orange juice. He sounded weary and unprepared for surprises, even one so familiar as the dim image already resident, awaiting but the raising of his eyes, in the tinted mirror. To one side of him, a blonde sagged slightly in his direction. Her elbow edged nearer to his own a gold cigarette case, and he politely averted his eyes to avoid reading the inscription, withdrawing, bumping the man on his right. Mr. Pivner cleared his throat, as one prepared to apologize. But the other merely darted a pin-pointed glance at him and turned away, straightening a lapel where hung a boutonnière shabby enough to appear, in this light, made of paper. And Mr. Pivner settled his rimless glasses back closer to his eyes to stare forth into the tinted glass whose length construed the three figures in vacancy, maintaining a dim reality of its own, embracing their shades in subterranean suspense.
To one side, the blonde opened her purse, and exchanged a muffled pleasantry with the bartender. From the other side came a gasp. Mr. Pivner cleared his throat, as though prepared to apologize but unable to think, so quickly, of anything specific to apologize for. But the sharp eyes gleamed at something beyond him, and with such intensity that his own were drawn in a reflex to look to where the blonde paid for her drink. But all Mr. Pivner saw, in the dim light, was a crisp twenty-dollar bill exchange hands: or so it looked to him, moonblind in the tinted gloom of that landscape where the three of them hung, asunder in their similarity, images hopelessly expectant of the appearance of figures, or a figure, of less transient material than their own.
VII
We will now discuss in a little more detail the struggle for existence.
—Darwin, The Origin of Species
—It reminds me rather of that convent, the one at . . . Champigneulles, was it? Near Dijon, said a tall woman, looking round her. —The one that was turned into a madhouse.
—I know what you mean, said the girl beside her. —Everyone keeps changing size. The tall woman looked at her quizzically, and noted that both of her wrists were bandaged. She took a step back; the girl took a step forward. —What do you do?
—I? Why . . . when?
—Write?
—Oh, said the tall woman, recovering, —I support my husband. He writes. He’s an editor, you know. He’s editing Esther’s book.
—Who’s Esther?
—Why, my dear, she’s our hostess. There, talking with the tall fellow in the green necktie. She turned, as her husband approached with a martini. —What an interesting group of people, she said. —And what interesting music.
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—It’s Handel, he said, handing her a glass. —The Triumph of Truth and Justice.
She looked around her, and raised the glass to her lips. —Do you think next year we might get to the Narcissus Festival in Hawaii?
Drinks were spilled, another brown line burnt on the mantel, people collided, excused themselves and greeted one another, and Ellery, tucking the green silk tie back in his jacket, said, —Just stop talking about it for a while. Who’s that? he added, nodding at a blond girl.
—I don’t know. She came with somebody. She’s going to Hollywood.
—I want another drink, Ellery said, and went toward the blonde.
—Ellery, please . . . But he was gone. She sat, holding her kitten.
—What does it mean, said a heavy voice near her. —The garbage cans in the street, the kids on the East Side playing in the gutters, swimming in that filthy river, see? What does that mean?
—Well she says Paris reminds her of a mouthful of decayed teeth, but I think Paris is just like going to the movies . . .
—A lovely little hotel near Saint Germain, I don’t think I crossed the river more than twice all the time I was there. I really lived on the left bank, it’s so much nicer, the architecture, the cloud formations over there . . .
—Of course if you like Alps. I found them a fearfully pretentious bore myself . . . I mean, what can you do with an Alp . . .
—He’s still in Paris. He wrote that he’s just bought one of those delightful Renaults . . .
—Oh yes, I do love them. An original?
Esther stood up. Her face was flushed. The music disturbed her because it seemed the records were being played at random, one stray side of Handel after another in haphazard succession. She started toward the room which had been the studio, where the music came from, and bumped into a person who was saying, —Do you mean you’ve never heard of Murti-Bing? Before she was halfway across the room, her way was blocked by an immense glistening countenance. —Baby they told me you were looking for a doctor, and . . .
—Do you know of one? Esther asked, too startled for poise.
—No but I’m looking for one too. Maybe we can find one together . . .
Esther found Rose sitting in the dark. —Isn’t the music nice? I’m playing them, she said. —Yes, but perhaps, he wouldn’t want any of them broken, Rose. —Oh, I won’t break them, Rose said, smiling at her in the dark. Suddenly Esther put an arm around her; and then as abruptly withdrew it, and left her there with the phonograph.
—Wasn’t it silly of me. I tried to kill myself twice in two weeks. The second time I was out for two days. Sleeping pills.
—How many did you take?
—Twenty-three. Why?
—I just wondered. It’s always a good thing to know.
Esther closed her eyes, as though shutting out sound, and moved on toward Don Bildow, whom she saw across the room talking with a gaunt man in an open-collar green wool shirt, and a stubby youth.
—Yes, I’m almost finished it, said a woman beside her, to the editor. —It’s to be called Some of My Best Friends Are Gentiles. I’m so weary of these painful apologies from our sensitive minorities. I often think how nice it must be among dogs, a bulldog saying, there’s a grayhound, there’s a basset, a Pekinese, none of them mind at all. They’re all dogs. Here all you have to do is say a word like Jew or Catholic or Negro or fairy and someone looks ready to cut you up . . .
—I’m sorry to interrupt, Esther said, —but who is that fellow talking to Don Bildow? The tall one.
—He’s a critic. I can’t remember his name. He used to do books on Old Masses.
—The other one calls himself a poet, said the woman who had been talking. —He’s a professional Jew, if you know what I mean.
Nearby, a man smoking something from a box whose label said, “Guaranteed to contain no tobacco” spoke to a fluttering blond boy who, someone must eventually remark, resembled an oeuf-durmayonnaise. The tall woman indicated him to her husband, with the query, —And who is that perfectly weird little person? He’s been talking for simply hours about the solids in Oochello. Wherever that is.
—He’s one of our . . . more sensitive writers, her husband got out expelling air as though it were salt water.
—Yes, she murmured, —I can see he has a good deal to be sensitive about. She watched, as the object of her gaze halted a pirouette of departure to say, —But all my dear friends are exotic, just all twisted and turned like the irregular verbs in any civilized language, and all from over-use! . . . The tall woman said thoughtfully, —Yes, and I tried to read his book. Didn’t I? she added, turning to the other woman who, she noticed now, was wearing a maternity dress in collapsed folds, the pregnancy foiled. Then as though bringing a topic from nowhere she smiled and said, —Will you bring me a drink? to her husband; —I’m drinking for two now, to them both; and, —I don’t know how he could have been so careless, to the other woman.
As Esther crossed the room, Herschel caught her arm. —Baby, you must hear what Rudy’s given his maid for Christmas. A hysterectomy! Isn’t that the most thoughtful thing you ever heard?
While the tall woman continued to stare toward the door, where the sensitive youth fluttered an escape against the current of entrants. —At least I think that’s who it was, I remember the picture on the book jacket, posing with magnolias . . . She paused, to add, as he disappeared, —Or was that a book by Edna St. Vincent Millay . . . ? And stepped aside for,
—Big Anna! but what happened baby? How did you get here?
—My Boy Scouts, I’ll never speak to them again . . .
—But I’m really upset about Rudy, Herschel went on, —that one called and has been in an auto smash somewhere.
—I have to find a doctor . . .
—And you’re so pretty tonight, and your nose, you know what they say about nos-es. Now you just drink this and we’ll find you the cutest little doll-doctor . . . Oh! so pretty for Christmas Eve, all red and shiny like a candy cane.
In the doorway, Maude hung back. —Do you think we could just go join the baby and live in Sweden, Arny? —Same thing there, he said. —I’ll get you a drink. Can you really tell I’ve got this shirt on inside out?
Someone was saying, —Rather like Pyramus and Thisbe, if you know what I mean, and of course everyone knows that he was so sensitive she had to put cotton in the bedsprings the first time so he wouldn’t be embarrassed . . . That person quieted, nodding at who came in the door. Others turned to see Agnes Deigh, who said immediately, —It’s really the most God-awful thing, will someone get me a drink? Is Stanley here?
—Who’s Stanley?
—A funny boy with a mustache. She sat down, looking round her; but Stanley had not arrived, and she was soon enclosed behind a curtain of trouser-seats.
—I really prefer books. No matter how bad a book is, it’s unique, but people are all so ordinary.
—I think we really like books that make us hate ourselves . . .
—But . . . why doesn’t someone just write a happy book . . . Maude had said that; but no one heard her. —If you had a judge who looked like your Daddy wouldn’t you trust him? she asked a youth who turned on her with, —Trust that old bastard? Chr-ahst, he doesn’t even trust himself. Do you want to buy a battleship?
All Maude could say, looking round the room, was —How do all these people know each other?
—Chr-ahst only knows. Do you like the party?
—It’s a little . . . chavenet. Don’t you think?
—Chr-ahst yes.
Esther had retrieved her kitten, and stood holding it too tightly. At her elbow, someone said, —Well Ruskin dated his life from the first time he saw them. —Well, of course Ruskin, said the other. —He was in town just last week, wasn’t he? said the tall woman. —I heard my husband talking about him. They had lunch together, I think . . . he’s doing a book about stones . . . ?
Across the room Ellery was turned toward her. He was talking to the blond girl, la
ughing, listening to her, she stood almost between them. The length of her back faced Esther. The heels were high, shoes narrow, legs slightly bowed. The whole of her figure up to the shoulders was slim as though waiting to be taken and turned, and bent downward and back: Esther felt heavy, resting against the door jamb, shapeless, and her head was tired, full, aching dully. —All I want to do is rent a house in the south of France with four deaf mutes . . . said someone near her. The room before her was clean; but in her own mind it existed with the permanence granted only to shambles. Tenants whom she had not met stood like fixed dwellers in her life, never to be dispossessed: they had been borne to her as they were in their permanent blue suits and brown suits and black dresses and eyeglasses, permanently standing and turning, talking to and about one another, nourished and propagated by their own sounds and the maneuvering of cigarettes, leaving the act of life outmoded, a necessity of the past, a compulsion of ignorance: men raised cigarettes in erect threat; women proffered the olive-tongued cavities of empty glasses. —What’s that music? someone asked her. —I don’t know, it’s something of Handel’s I think, said Esther, pausing to listen to the strains of celebration written by the barber’s son who had learned to play on a dumb spinet, as the anachronistic morning-sickness rose in her, and she put an arm across her sensitive breasts. Ellery blew a smoke ring toward her, a savage missile which the blonde reached out and broke on the air.
—You’d better ask this nice lady right here, said a man who was fluttering a pamphlet titled Toilet Training and Democracy in one hand, leading a seven-year-old girl with the other.
—I’m the little girl from downstairs, the child said to Esther. —Mummy sent me up to ask you could you give me some sleeping pills . . . Esther set off with her to the bathroom, where they interrupted someone who was looking through the medicine cabinet. —Oh, sorry . . . he said, —just wanted to see if there were any razor blades here . . . He left with difficulty. Emerging a minute later, she was caught forcefully by the wrist. —Look, you’ve got a kitten, I’ve got to tell you the one about Pavlov and his kitten. You know Pavlov, he had dogs. Pavlov rang a bell and whfffft, they salivated, remember? The dogs I mean. Well this time Pavlov has a kitten . . . Voice and man were swept away, and Don Bildow was not where she had seen him. But Ellery was coming toward her smiling. She raised her face, smiling; and he stopped short, at the couch between them, where sitting alone was a man whose profession was as immediately obvious as that of the rickshaw boys of Natal, who whitewash their legs. A bow tie of propeller proportions stood out over extra-length collar bills on a white-on-white shirt, protected by many folds of a cloth which somehow retained the gracious dignity of transatlantic origin in spite of the draped depravity in its cut. —Benny! I’m glad you got here.